Treasures of Egypt
by HDKingsbury
Summary: After the disaster at the opera house, Erik flees France and ends up in Egypt, where he reinvents himself. No longer the mysterious Phantom, he is now the equally mysterious Erik Rien, dealer in antiquities. A story of adventure and romance.
1. The Catacombs

**Author's Note:**

This is a somewhat lengthy introduction to this story. If you'd rather just "cut to the chase," by all means do so. Just scroll down until you see "Chapter 1." Otherwise, here goes.

This is my first attempt at writing an Erik/Other Woman pairing. Though I'll always be an E/C shipper at heart, I thought it time to spread my wings and try something new. This is also the most Gerik-inspired of all my Eriks. In fact, this story starts off in the days immediately following the disaster at the Opera Populaire.

The following is a general timeline I created for the life of the Erik in _Treasures of Egypt_. Although this is a movie-based Erik, I have changed some dates and backstories from the movie to address certain things with which I have "issues," such as:

I didn't care for the implication that Erik spent all but his first 10 years living under the opera house;

I never cared for the idea that he was watching Christine -- as a child, no less! -- for 10 more years. Ugh!

And I really don't care for the completely ludicrous idea of the events taking place during the Franco-Prussian War, even if the producer and director blithely ignored that fact.

With these things in mind, here's what I came up with.

**1848** - Erik is born near Rouen, son of a stonemason. Since ALW says nothing about his earliest years, I have turned to Leroux for this. I have chosen this year because I am keeping with a younger Erik, basing part of my calculations on the fact that Gerry was 33 years old when he made _Phantom_. With my revised timeline, that would have Erik being born around 1848. While little more than a toddler, Erik is sold by his parents to a band of traveling gypsies. With them, he is forced to perform as The Devil's Child, and is subjected to abuse.

**1858** - This part is movie-based. Now 10 years old, Erik has had enough of his masters. He kills his most vicious abuser and escapes from the authorities thanks to the help of the future Mme Giry. In this story, I am giving her the first name of Hélène. Erik spends the next several years living in the opera house, the only one aware of his presence being the young ballet dancer.

**1864** - This differs from the movie. A teenaged Erik has become restless with life within the confines of the opera house. He decides to strike out on his own. Bidding good-bye to Hélène, the only friend he has ever known, he leaves the opera house, believing he will never return.

**1864-1879** - This is Erik's "great hiatus," that time during which he has traveled the continent, gaining experience while performing as The Living Corpse (again, borrowing some from Leroux). His travels take him to the Middle East, where he lives for several years, again a la Leroux's Erik. Disenchanted with life in the outside world, he returns to Paris and to the comfort and safety of the opera house where once again, his old friend Hélène, now Mme Giry, welcomes him home. This covers Erik's life from age 16 to age 31.

**1880-1881** - The events of the '04 movie. This has been moved forward 10 years because of the Franco-Prussian War. (See note above) It also fits in with both ALW's stage production as well as our dear friend, Gaston. Covers years 32-33 of Erik's life.

**1881-1885** - The beginning of Erik's years in Egypt. Here, he reinvents himself. No longer the mysterious Phantom of the Opera, he is now the equally mysterious Erik Rien. He has turned his back on music, and instead has become a collector and dealer in rare art and antiquities. During this time, he has acquired a companion named A'aqil.

**1886** - The events of _Treasures of Egypt_. He is now 38 years old -- a man in his prime.

**1907** - The epilogue to this story and ties in once again with the movie. This time, the ending. Again, the date has been changed by 10 years so as not to have to deal with the aftermath of World War I.

I'm not sure how much of this will actually be used in this new story, but thought I'd let you in on how I work up a background for my characters.

Let me conclude this introduction with a huge thank my dear friend Lizzy. Throughout the writing process, Lizzy has been my beta, my editor, and as the story continued, became my co-author in many instances. This story sparked her imagination as much as mine, and often she would send me snippets of dialogue or suggestions for scenes. In almost every instance, those scenes and bits of dialogue would end up in a chapter.

And now, on with the story.

-0-0-0-

**Treasures of Egypt**

**By HDKingsbury  
and MadLizzy**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system -- available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**Chapter 1 – The Catacombs**

_Abandon every hope, ye who enter here.  
_**Dante Alighieri, **_**The Divine Comedy**_

-0-0-0-

_"Halt! You are entering the Empire of Death!"_

Erik sneered contemptuously at the warning carved into the stone and entered the ossuary with its piles of ancient bones. Though most Parisians were oblivious to the miles of tunnels beneath their feet, the subterranean passageways had been around for centuries, dating back to when Paris was a Gallo-Roman town called Lutetia and the tunnels were used to quarry limestone. It wasn't until the last century, however, that a government official came up with the idea of using some of these ancient rooms as repositories for the overcrowded cemeteries of the city.

Over the years, as the city's population had grown, the generations of dead began to overwhelm the many churchyards. The burying grounds became so gorged with bodies that they had become little more than public nuisances. Contamination from improperly performed burials, mass graves, and decomposing corpses all helped spread disease and pestilence throughout the neighborhoods. Something had to be done to alleviate the situation, and a plan was developed to clean up these cesspools. Thousands of remains were disinterred and removed to the ancient tunnels and galleries, the bones now resting in the massive vaults beneath the city.

Erik felt right at home.

Lighting his way through the dark passageways with a half-spent candle, he walked past one of the many crypts and into the room he had been using for the past two weeks. Once inside, he leaned back against the stone wall, allowing his body to slump down until he was sitting on the earthen floor. He tugged at the ragged coat he'd found earlier that afternoon in a dustbin, an unexpected but welcome discovery he had come upon during the day's scavenger hunt. He pulled it tight, trying to block out the chill. From one pocket, he pulled a small loaf of bread. This would be his supper. He took a few bites and chewed slowly, making the meal last.

He exhaled loudly and forced his body to relax.

Ever since the disaster at the Opera Populaire, he had been in hiding, hunted like the rabid animal he was. Yes, rabid. What other explanation could there be? He replayed that night over and over again in his mind. The plan had been perfect, or so he'd thought. The management of the Populaire had been persuaded to stage his great opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_, and Erik had convinced himself that if he took Signor Piangi's place on the stage and sang to Christine of his great love for her, she would not only understand but would reciprocate. Instead, the opposite happened. His actions had terrified her; he had forced her into a corner and ordered her to make her choice. And so she responded in the only way she could, by exposing him for the fraud that he was.

Something snapped in his mind that night, when she tore away his mask. The events that followed were little more than painful blurs of emotions. Everything, that is, except what Christine did next. In spite of all his wickedness, in spite of his threats to kill her young man, she had found it in her heart to show compassion. She kissed him. It was the first kiss, the only kiss, Erik had ever known. Even his own poor mother had been unable to look upon his ruined face, much less bestow a kiss upon it. In that moment, he knew the only thing he could do was to release the woman he loved to her vicomte and allow the two of them to leave.

Though the young couple could have helped the mob that by that time was hunting him down, Christine had convinced Raoul to do the opposite. They had deliberately misdirected the throng, giving Erik the time he needed to make his escape. During those precious seconds, before the angry rabble discovered their mistake, Erik had broken the mirror that disguised one of several egresses that led to the tunnels and catacombs of the Parisian underworld. And this was where he had been spending most of his time these days, going out only to get food and other necessities.

Discarding the all-but-spent candle, he reached for the miner's lamp on the floor and turned it on, illuminating his new home. With its electromagnetic induction coil, all he needed to do was turn the crank a few times, flip the switch, and voila! Let there be light! Every time he turned on the lamp, Erik thanked the forgetful worker who had left it down here in the tunnels.

He looked around, reassuring himself that no unwelcome tourists had come down to see the ossuary while he'd been out and discovered his hideaway, and noted with satisfaction that nothing had been disturbed. Over in the corner were the blanket and tins of food he'd 'borrowed' from a couple of houses above, along with a pack of matches and some candles, courtesy of a nearby church.

Erik stretched and yawned. His eyes burned; his neck and back ached. He flicked off the lamp and, closing his eyes, rested his head against the cold, damp stone.

Without illumination, the tunnels were so black, so quiet, that his mind often created things for him to see and hear. In the dark, he imagined he could still see every detail – the cracks in the limestone walls, the moisture dripping down in small rivulets, puddling on the ground. Sometimes, he imagined he was back under the opera house, the music filtering down, the darkness distilling it, cleansing it, removing the pain and suffering that had gone into creating it, leaving behind only its beauty. But mostly it was Christine's voice he heard – Christine singing in her debut the night of the gala; Christine at the cemetery, singing to her Angel of Music; and Christine, as Aminta, singing of her awakening passions for Don Juan.

_No!_

He jammed the heels of his palms again his forehead, attempting to erase the agonizing memories. He opened his eyes and turned the lamp back on, forcing back the phantoms that the darkness brought with it these days. He looked at his bleak surroundings yet again, assessing them.

_How ironic that I, who once portrayed myself as Red Death, am now surrounded by so much death. _

His gaze went back over towards the ossuary, and he made a mental game of counting the bones piled up and held in place in grotesque patterns and designs. How many were down here? How many dead had been removed from the cemeteries above and brought down here? Hundreds? No, many more than that. Thousands? Erik raised his hand to his forehead as he saluted the dead.

_Requiescat in pace._

Exhausted, he reached over for his blanket in the pile of meager belongings he'd left there. He lay down on the floor, drew the blanket over him, and gave himself over to sleep.

-0-0-0-

_Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?_

_Christine, I love you..._

_Track down this murderer, he must be found!  
Hunt out this animal who runs to ground!  
Track down this murderer!  
Track down this murderer!_

Erik woke with a start, his heart pounding rapidly. He reached for the lamp and turned it on. Had the sounds of the mob come from the tunnels? Had the gendarmes finally realized that the madman they sought had been below their very feet all this time? Or had it only been his dream? Erik laughed in spite of the dire situation and forced himself to calm down.

Two weeks had passed, and the authorities continued to scour the streets and alleys. In the days immediately following the fire, their ranks had been swelled by civilians who had their own ideas about how justice would best be served. But the crowd, like the fire, had finally burned itself out, and slowly their numbers dwindled. Erik imagined he could still hear their angry voices as they had come looking for him in the bowels of the opera house, and his emotions veered back and forth between anguish and anger.

_Served the damn fools right, I gave them my music, I tried to make their world take flight, and how did they repay me? How did she repay me? I gave everything to Christine – my heart, my soul, my music. I was her Angel of Music; I gave her skills that, if left to those idiots at the opera, she would never have developed on her own. I gave and I gave and I gave and what did I get in return? I meant nothing to her. _

He shook his head.

_No! It wasn't her fault; it was mine. All my life I've had to take what I wanted. __Rien__! Nothing. I have nothing to show for all these years in the darkness. I began as nobody, and I shall end as nobody. I am Erik the Insignificant. Erik Nothing. Erik Rien._

He heaved a huge sigh, half in disgust with the world, half in disgust with himself. By now, he was fully awake. He wondered how long he had slept, what time it was, but even with the lamp on, it was impossible to tell if it was day or night. A pocket watch wouldn't have helped either; that is, if he'd had one. The only thing to do was to go above to find out. His stomach growled loudly. That settled it; it was time to eat. Hoisting himself up off the floor, he rolled up his blanket and tucked it away in a corner.

As he walked out of the room, he reached over and grabbed the felt hat he had appropriated a few nights ago. He hated having only its brim to cover his face, but he had been left with no other choice. All of his masks had been destroyed in the fire. He had brought this…this exposure on himself. Pulling it low over the damaged side of his face, he headed up.

-0-0-0-

It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight, and Erik remained in the shadows as he acclimated himself to the outside world. It must have been midday. The streets were jammed with traffic. Horses were pulling trucks, carrying produce, ice, and dry goods. Knots of children ran up and down the street, playing. Adults on their way to whatever business they had to conduct looked down their noses at the street urchins. Nearby, a church bell tolled the noon hour.

_No wonder I'm hungry. Time to find out what's for lunch._

But with so many people about, he needed to practice stealth. Keeping his hat pulled low, Erik used the crowd to hide his presence and jostled his way through.

_Hide in plain sight! Fools, all of them!_

A few minutes later, he was in a deserted alley, munching on a piece of cheese and an apple he'd pilfered. The warm breeze that had been blowing earlier picked up again, and some old newspapers fluttered past him. One piece of paper landed at his feet and stayed there, its words staring back at him, mocking him. The paper was several days old, the main article detailing the aftermath of the fire at the Opera Populaire.

As impossible as it sounded, he read that no one died as a result of the fire. Injuries? Yes, but no fatalities. Erik read further.

"Signor Ubaldo Piangi is expected to make a full recovery, although the future of his singing career is in doubt."

Erik balled up the paper and threw it aside in disgust, swearing.

_Can't do anything right. The opera house…Piangi…Christine… _

He stopped in his tracks at the thought of her name.

_Christine!_

Out of nowhere, tears welled up in his eyes. He crumbled onto his knees, wrapping his arms around his middle. He rocked to and fro, fighting off the pain inside.

_Oh, Christine!_

Erik knew he was close to suffering an emotional breakdown. Wracked with guilt, he contemplated turning himself in, but knew the best that awaited him was being locked away for the rest of his life in an institution for the criminally insane. That is, if he were lucky. More likely, he would face the humiliation of a public execution and a date with Mme Guillotine. No, neither option would do.

He forced himself to recover his self-control, then rose up and wandered aimlessly along the streets, ignoring the people. By the time he came to his senses, it was dusk. He glanced about, and saw that he was on a modest residential street, lined with houses and apartments. Without conscious thought, he had come to the apartment where Mme Giry lived.


	2. Mme Giry

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 2 - Mme Giry**

_The eternal quest of the individual human being is to shatter his loneliness.  
_**Norman Cousins**

**-0-0-0-**

Erik stared at the door in front of him. Was it mere coincidence that brought him here? No. He knew why he was here, what he needed to do. Even if he couldn't find the courage to give himself up to the authorities, he had to face the wrath of the one person who ever truly cared for him – Hélène Giry.

He glanced up and down the street. It was nearly deserted, so he made no attempt to sneak around the back way. He boldly rang the bell and waited. It wasn't long before the knob turned and the door opened. On the other side stood Hélène. She looked older than she had two weeks ago, or maybe it was only that he had never before noticed the touches of grey at her temples, or the finely-etched lines at the corners of her eyes.

"You!" she exclaimed, her face showing her rage. "What do you mean by showing your face here?"

Shame overcame Erik. What had he expected, that she would welcome him with open arms?

"How dare I show my face anywhere?" he replied, sadly. "Forgive me, Madame," he said, falling back on formal words to cover the awkwardness of the situation. "I did not mean to—"

"Did not mean to what?" she interrupted, cutting him short. "Did not mean to destroy the opera house? Did not mean to destroy the livelihoods of hundreds of workers, to endanger everyone there that night? Go away. I want nothing more to do with you." She turned to shut the door.

Erik held out his hand and stooped her. "Please, Madame, I beg of you. Keep your voice down. That is, of course, unless you prefer that I be hauled away by the gendarmes."

"Oh, that would be perfect!" she said with a huff. "I can see it all now – the public trial, the scandal when it is learned how I sheltered you. How would I ever be able to live this all down, our association? For it would come out, you know."

"A few minutes of your time, that's all I ask," he said softly, hoping that if he remained composed, she would calm down. "Not that I am complaining, but I was not the one who asked you to intrude upon my life. That was your choice, years ago. I promise that if you only listen to me for a few more minutes, I'll never prevail upon you again."

They stared at each other for a number of moments, the tension between them palpable. At last, Mme Giry exhaled loudly, her anger dissipating. "Come in. Sit down," she said, more an order than an invitation, and pointed to a pair of chairs by the unlit fireplace. "No, I have no intention of turning you in," she said, taking the seat opposite him, "although I cannot think of one good reason why I shouldn't."

Erik sat down, keeping his hat on and his head lowered. He had caused her enough grief; he did not want to subject her to the hideousness of his uncovered face. "Neither can I, Madame," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Neither can I."

The two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Hélène eyed Erik up and down, not happy with what she saw sitting before her.

"Have you eaten today? You look even more gaunt than I remember. And do not call me 'Madame.' You make me feel older than I already am," she added lightly, trying to improve the atmosphere a little.

Erik slowly shook his head. "I do not wish to put you to any further difficulty," he said, still stinging from her initial reception of him and too proud to accept food in spite of his situation. He was grateful when she did not press the matter.

"Very well," she said. "I suppose I should come to the point and ask why you are here. I must confess, I was certain that by now you were long gone."

"I will be, and soon. I only…" His voice drifted off, unable to speak any further. He lowered his head and cradled it in his hands, his hat falling to the floor as his shoulders shook in great, silent sobs.

Hélène rose and walked over to him. She knelt in front of him and took his hands into hers and held them. "Erik, tell me – why have you come here?" This time her tone was kinder, gentler.

He turned his head away and wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve. "Do not look at me like that," he said, choking back a sob.

"Like what?"

"With pity. I don't want pity. Not from you, not from anyone."

"Then talk to me, Erik. My anger is spent. I will not scold you anymore." She paused, then got up and returned to her chair. "I know love can make a man, or a woman, do strange things. You and I, we have a long history together."

"Indeed, we do," he agreed, his emotions once again under control. Erik paused and considered what he wanted to say next. This time, the silence was less strained. Before he could say another word, however, his stomach let out a loud growl. He looked over at Hélène, embarrassed.

She cracked a small smile. "You _are_ hungry, aren't you," she said. "Conversations are always better on a full stomach. No, stay seated. I'll bring us some sandwiches." She went to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with sandwiches and tea. "Eat first," she said. "Then we'll talk."

-0-0-0-

Erik was so famished, his first urge was to wolf down his food, but he forced himself to nibble his sandwich and sip his tea. He glanced around, wondering if Meg were in another room. "Your daughter…?"

"She's out for the rest of the afternoon. Whatever you say will be between you and me…and no one else."

"I'm leaving Paris," he said quickly.

"Where will you go?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet. Besides, if I don't tell you, you won't have to lie for me."

"Then I suppose it's best if I don't ask where you've been staying," she said, not really expecting an answer. "How will you get by on this journey of yours? Even the most basic of needs – food, clothing – cost money," she said, noting the sorry state of his attire. "Or," she added, a touch sarcastically, "were you planning on cheating and stealing your way across the countryside?" She bit her tongue. "Forgive me," she said, frustrated with herself for slipping back into anger. "That was uncalled for."

"You needn't apologize. I deserved that. As for money, I have some put aside. I'll return to my rooms beneath the opera house and—"

Hélène interrupted. "You'll do no such thing. It's too dangerous for you to go there. You're a wanted man and police still patrol what's left of the opera house. If they were to see you, they would shoot first and ask questions later."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"I'll go. No buts, Erik," she said, waving off his protestations. "I know how to reach your rooms, and if someone sees me rummaging through the ruins, I can always say that I'm looking for personal belongings."

"But I cannot have you risking yourself for me."

"Don't try to be heroic now, Erik. I can't let you go back there and have some trigger-happy policeman make an end of you."

"Do you think they would be less likely to shoot you than me?" He shrugged and laughed weakly. "Perhaps the world would be better off without me."

"Nonsense. You're exhausted. You aren't thinking clearly."

"Have I ever?"

They talked some more, and in the end, Erik reluctantly gave in, and the two agreed to meet again the next afternoon.

-0-0-0-

Erik glanced about the Bois de Boulogne as he waited for Hélène. Once used by French nobility as hunting grounds, the Bois these days was a park, its wide alleyways popular for strolls among elegant Parisians. Its lyrical expanses of greenery were landscaped with open lawns and woodlands filled with hornbeam, beech, linden, cedar, chestnut and elm trees and hardier exotic species such as redwoods. Its bucolic beauty had inspired many an artist, but its effects were lost upon Erik, whose every nerve was on edge.

He forced himself to relax as he walked the serpentine footpaths that traversed the grounds. He passed the shore of one of the two lakes that stretched along the east end of the park, and paid no heed to the romantic views of waterfalls, majestic trees, and islands. At last he came to the small bridge where he and Hélène had agreed to meet, and wasn't disappointed when she showed up at the appointed hour and place, punctual as always.

They found a bench and sat down. Hélène handed Erik a carpetbag. "Inside are several changes of clothing, as well as money and a few other things that might help you on your journey," she said.

He took a quick look inside. "You had no problems getting to my things?"

"No, no one stopped me. No one saw me. I found the money readily enough. It was exactly where you said it would be. The clothes, however, were a different matter. Between the fire and the mob, there wasn't much left to salvage. So I scrounged around and found some secondhand workers' clothes and some stage makeup that you might use to disguise yourself."

"Thank you," he said, absent-mindedly, as he looked out over the lake. "It was bad?" he asked, referring to what he used to jokingly refer to as his lair.

"It's probably best you didn't go there. The place is a mess. It would have broken your heart to see the destruction." She handed him a small hamper. "Here. You'll need this, too."

"What's this? Are we to have a picnic?"

"It's food, maybe the last decent meal you'll eat for a long while."

Erik looked inside and saw cheese, bread, some cold chicken, and a bottle of wine. "Red? I was always taught that one serves white wine with poultry," he said, the corner of his mouth turned up in an attempt at a grin.

Hélène gave a small laugh. "Beggars can't be choosers."

He explored the contents of the basket further, and was surprised to find a set of lock picks under the napkins. "So, you have now decided that there is no harm in aiding and abetting a known criminal?" He looked further. "And what's this?" he asked, pulling out a railway ticket.

"I thought it might help. It will only get you as far as Sens. Where you go from there I shall leave up to you." She saw him hesitate. "Take them, you foolish man. You may need them. Besides, how much more trouble could this get me into?" She took a deep breath. Her expression softened and she let her gaze linger on him, knowing this was likely to be their last conversation. "Will I ever see you again?"

"No," he said, his eyes filled with regret. "This is farewell."

"Is there…is there anyone else for whom you have a message?"

He knew whom she meant. "Yes. I…If…When you see Christine again, will you tell her…will you tell her I am sorry?"

"Is that all?"

Erik put his hand in his pocket and felt the little bit of gold and diamond there. "I fear there are no words to properly express my regret at having caused her so much pain and anguish." Tears threatened to erupt once again, but he swallowed hard and fought them back. "Tell her that she made the right choice, that I know that she loves her young man, and that I shall always be grateful for her many kindnesses to me."

"I'll miss you, Erik, in spite of everything."

"I shall miss you, too, Hélène. I never thanked you for all you've done, and now…? I've done a poor job of repaying you," he said, his voice filled with remorse.

They were both embarrassed by the emotion of their farewells, and Hélène tried to cover the discomfort of the circumstances by making a point of noticing the time. "Yes, well…you had best be going. I need to return home. Meg will be wondering where I am."

"But, of course."

They turned to go their separate ways, but before they parted for good, Hélène had one last request.

"Write to me someday, won't you?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern. "Just to let me know you're still alive?

Erik nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Well then, I must be going," she said.

He watched as she wandered off, and then he headed out of the Bois. "Adieu, old friend," he said, and disappeared into the shadows.

-0-0-0-


	3. Leaving Paris

Thank you to all my readers, and especially to those of you who have left reviews, sent me and Lizzy PMs, and generally have taken the time to let us know how much you like how this story is starting out.

Good news! Tonight, I'm finishing up chapter 18, so you know there are at least that many more chapters to this story. Actually, there'll be a lot more than that. This will definitely be novel length!

Enjoy your weekend, and enjoy chapter 3! --HD

* * *

**Treasures of Egypt  
by HDKingsbury  
Copyright © 2008**

**Chapter 3  
****Leaving Paris**

**-0-0-0-**

_Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.  
_**Emily Dickinson**

**-0-0-0-**

Early the next morning, Erik prepared to make his way to the railway station. Before leaving his underground hideout for the last time, he put to good use some the items Mme Giry had packed. Face putty, theatrical makeup, and a small hand mirror found nestled amongst the clothes were used to disguise his appearance. Though unable to completely cover the distorted flesh, the deformations were not apparent unless someone looked closely. He covered his right eye with its drooping lids as best he could, relying upon the shadow of his slouch hat to do the rest. With the workman's clothes and the carpetbag, Erik looked like any other common laborer.

He smirked as he checked his pockets. In one was a wad of franc notes; in the other, a bottle and a handkerchief. _Yes,_ he thought, _this just might work._

Watchful of everyone and everything, he made his way to the station. Once inside the building, he hung back, remaining in the shadows as he checked out the lay of the land. Over on the platform there stood a couple of stern-faced gendarmes. Erik had no doubt but that they were looking for him but, from the expressions on their faces, their efforts were half-hearted at best. That didn't matter, though. No matter how little attention they were paying, Erik was not about to increase their vigilance by advertising his presence.

Making use of a small, out-of-the-way alcove, Erik concentrated his attention on the numerous porters making their way about the platform. He observed that the police paid these men little heed. A plan was forming in his mind, and Erik took his time as he scrutinized the different porters, taking note of their age, their size, their appearance, and their body language. At last, he chose one he felt might suit his purposes. When the man walked near him, Erik stepped forward.

"A moment of your time, monsieur?"

The porter turned. He was an older man with a slightly stooped back, a flushed face and hands that trembled slightly. Erik had assessed the man and was fairly certain he had found someone who was addicted to drink.

"May I help you?" the porter asked deferentially.

"I have a request to make," Erik said genially, "and you strike me as someone who might be able to help me." He pulled out the bank notes and waved them in front of the other man. The porter's eyes lit up. "Over here." Erik indicated the alcove. "We don't need unwanted eyes or ears to interfere with our transaction."

The man's greed overcame any caution he may have had, just as Erik had suspected, and followed. "How may I help you, monsieur?" the porter asked, his hand reaching out towards the bank notes. "You wish to have something…some contraband taken on board?"

Erik chuckled and put one arm on the man's shoulder, treating him as a friendly co-conspirator. "How very astute of you, my good sir," he said, and with his free hand, withdrew the dampened cloth from his other pocket, and pressed it hard over the porter's nose. Erik held tightly while the chloroform did its job, and within seconds, the porter was unconscious.

"Sorry, monsieur," Erik said as he eased the man to the ground. "I don't have time to explain."

Quickly, he stripped off the porter's outer clothes and dressed in them, stuffing his own clothes in the carpetbag. He turned to walk away, and then paused. He looked back at the unconscious man slumped against the wall and stuffed a couple of franc notes in the porter's shirt pocket.

"Be careful who you talk to, monsieur. The next man might not be so generous."

Assuming the porter's demeanor, Erik grabbed a couple of pieces of luggage, and carrying them along with his own bag, made his way through the crowd and onto the train. He found an empty compartment, closed the door, changed clothes again, and this time assumed the role of a passenger. He exited the compartment, and took his place among the general passengers. Opening up a newspaper he had brought with him, Erik prepared for the trip to Sens.

-0-0-0-

Over the next several weeks, Erik traveled at night, often taking what he needed along the way. He was a man on the run, without time for niceties. He started out with no real itinerary, only a general feeling of getting as far away from Paris—and eventually France—as soon as possible. He avoided the cities and traveled the countryside, most often on foot. Spring was turning to summer; the weather was warm and Erik slept under the stars.

_Track down this murderer, he must be found! _

No matter how much he tried to ignore them, the words continued to echo through his mind.

-0-0-0-

From Sens, Erik headed in a southern direction, towards Joigny. By this time, he had changed his appearance once again. These days, he looked more like a gypsy, thanks to the bits and pieces of costumes from an old production of _Il Trovatore_ that Hélène had packed for him. With no mask or wig to hide his disfigurement, he instead tied a red bandana around his head, and as a finishing touch, wore a patch to cover his damaged right eye.

Near Joigny, Erik picked up work as a bargeman along the _Canal de Bourgogne_. The trip would take him south, towards the city of St-Jean de Losne, a distance of approximately 110 miles. He figured this would be much easier on his feet than walking.

The barges, once the mainstream for transporting goods throughout France and to the major ports, were losing business to the faster, more efficient railroads, but there were still enough of them on the canals to make finding work comparatively easy. Bargemen, it waswell known, came from the lower rungs of society, and among them, there was an unspoken rule of not asking questions. When he approached Captain Theudebert of the _Bonne Amie_, Erik explained his appearance as the result of a boiler accident many years back.

Theudebert could not have cared less. He took one look at Erik, noted favorably the strong, wiry frame, shrugged his shoulders, and hired him on the spot.

Originally, Erik's plan had been to part company with the _Bonne Amie_ at St-Jean, but when the boat reached its destination, he found himself having second thoughts. By now, it was obvious that no one was looking for him in this region. Hard as it was to believe, he found he was actually enjoying the work, and so he spent the summer in Burgundy, working the canals.

He formed no friendships with the other crewmen, but by pulling his fair share of the workload, he got along well enough with them. The locks along the canal were numerous, as the elevation rose more than 200 feet from start to finish. At each lock, the crew had to cast on and then cast off the moorings, and otherwise ensure that the barge's load was secured. At the end of each day, Erik was exhausted, but that suited him just fine. The exhaustion allowed him to sleep without being haunted by dreams of Christine.

As he traveled south, Erik found himself rediscovering the beauty of the light. He was learning also to appreciate a day's work for a day's pay. The work was backbreaking, but for once in his life, he was earning an honest living. Instead of taking from others, he was not just earning his keep, but was also contributing something in return, even if it was only mindless labor that helped him keep his thoughts occupied with the present. Indeed, he felt himself being strengthened and purified as the work and the sunlight burned away the painful memories.

At each stop, Erik went ashore and sought out the most recent news from Paris. He read with interest about what was being referred to as "the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera," and followed the progress of the investigation in the newspapers. He noted with relief that less and less attention was being given the matter. After six weeks passed, a notice was published, stating that the investigation was being formally called off. The police had learned from a reliable source that the man they were seeking had fled the country in the days immediately following the fire and was said to be heading to Canada. Canadian authorities were being notified, but no further actions would be taken.

Erik couldn't help but wonder if the reliable source was Hélène Giry.

He let out a sigh of relief. It was truly time for him to move on, to reinvent himself. The opera ghost was dead, but Erik Rien was alive.

In the same paper, he came upon another notice, this one on the society page. The engagement of opera diva Christine Daaé to Raoul Carpentier, Vicomte de Chagny was officially announced.

Erik set the paper aside. So, that was the end of that. There was no pain when he read the announcement, no sorrow, only a sincere wish that Raoul and Christine would have a life together that was filled with a happiness that Erik knew he would never experience. He pulled the ring out of his pocket and wondered if he should continue keeping it. After all, it only served to remind him of how much of a failure his only foray into the realm of love had been. Why not take it to a pawnbroker? Surely, he could get a goodly sum of money for it, an always-welcome commodity.

But he couldn't bear to part with the ring. What was it the poet said? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. And so he placed the ring back into his pocket. Yes, he would keep it—for now.

-0-0-0-

The summer days lazily stretched out. Now that he could relax his guard, Erik started taking more notice of his surroundings. It wasn't that he was suddenly happy and carefree—he doubted he ever would be that—but he was beginning to take an interest in life once again. He became aware of little things he had never paid attention to in the past—the tall trees lining the waterway, offering cooling shade in the heat of the day; the warbling of songbirds, serenading the men as they toiled; the chorus of cicadas as evening approached; and the charm of villages with their cobbled streets and half-timbered houses looking much as they had for centuries.

One of the stops along the canal was the city of Dijon. Finding himself with a few hours of free time, Erik decided to be a tourist and visit the old city. It was market day, and the streets were full of fascinating shops selling everything from clothes and shoes to _pâtisserie_ and the _pain d'épices_, the spiced breads and cakes for which Dijon was famous, and, of course, mustard.

He wandered aimlessly along the narrow and historic streets. He saw the looming form of the church of Notre-Dame de Dijon and headed in its direction. Soon he found himself standing in the rue de la Préfecture, in front of church building with its Gothic facade of etched stonewalls and rows of false gargoyles. He gazed at the curious figures, noting on one of the columns a little stone owl that was much more worn than the surrounding carvings.

"Don't forget to rub the owl for good luck!"

Erik turned to a stranger standing next to him, a smallish man with an engaging grin. He, too, was gazing at the cathedral.

"I beg your pardon?" Erik said, annoyed at the little man's interruption.

The stranger ignored Erik's scowl. "It's an ancient tradition," he said, pointing to owl. "You touch _la chouette_, the little owl, with your left hand and make a wish."

Erik looked at the owl, and then back at the man. "And then what happens?"

"If you're lucky, your wish will come true."

_If I'm lucky. As if that would ever happen._

"Yes, well…thank you," said Erik, thinking perhaps he should wish the man away.

"My pleasure," said the stranger, who, with a doff of his cap, walked on.

"Now, what was that all about?" Erik said to no one. He stood looking at the owl for several moments. Then he looked around to see if anyone else was watching.

_If you're lucky, your wish will come true._

"Oh, what the hell. Why not?" he said. Feeling a bit sheepish, he stepped forward and, remembering to use his left hand, rubbed the owl.

Erik never knew if it truly had been the influence of _la chouette_, or simply coincidence, but when he looked back over the events of his life, he was sure that it was at this time that his fortunes made a marked change for the better.

-0-0-0-


	4. On to Marseille

**Treasures of Egypt  
****by HDKingsbury  
****Copyright © 2008**

**Chapter 4  
****On to Marseille**

-0-0-0-

_If one tries to navigate unknown waters one runs the risk of shipwreck.  
_**Ancient Egyptian Proverb**

-0-0-0-

"Hey, Jean. You gonna join the rest of us?"

Erik caught himself before he started looking around for whoever this Jean person was.

_Fool, they're talking to you, or have you forgotten the name you've been using?_

"I'll be right there," he said.

An older man, the most senior member of the crew of the _Bonne Amie_, was the one who had called. He was a boisterous man named Luc, big boned and heavy muscled. Luc motioned to a vacant spot in amongst the rest of the crew who had gathered on deck for their supper, giving Erik a hearty slap on the back as he took his place.

The cook ladled out some stew and handed the tin dish to Erik. Someone else tore off a heel of bread and passed it down. As the men ate, there was joking and laughter. There was reason to celebrate.

The _Bonne Amie _had made the trip south without incident—there had been no injuries, and their cargo had been safely delivered. Erik looked around at the faces of the crew. Some would make the return trip north, while others would collect their pay and move on. Erik, or Jean as he had been calling himself, was among the latter. His plans were to disappear into the night, leaving behind no trace that he had ever been aboard, letting his presence linger only as a memory.

After everyone ate, the dishes and utensils were collected, washed and stowed away. One of the men, Aldric, brought out his fiddle and played a few tunes. Erik gazed longingly at the instrument, becoming mindful of how much he missed music. He closed his eyes as Aldric played, a bittersweet song of love found and lost, and allowed his mind to drift back to the opera house, to the music he used to listen to, that he used to compose for Christine….

"Do you play?"

Aldric's question broke into Erik's thought and brought him back to the present. "Did you say something?"

"I was asking if you played. You had that look on your face, the kind a fiddler gets when he's itchin' to make some music."

"A little," Erik replied, ill at ease as he often was when the center of attention.

"Would you like to play something?" Aldric asked, offering Erik the fiddle.

Erik tentatively accepted the instrument. There was nothing fancy about it, nothing the least bit extraordinary. It was a common fiddle, the kind used by itinerant musicians everywhere, but the lure to create music with it was great. He held it lovingly, amused at how such an ordinary little fiddle could bring these feelings out in him. At last, he tucked the instrument under his chin and considered what to play.

He gazed at the faces of the crew. These were coarse, working men, men who probably weren't interested in something from the classical repertoire. He chuckled to himself as he imagined how they'd react if he played one of his more complex compositions. In the end, he decided upon some lively folk songs. He started by playing "Sur Le Pont D'Avignon."

_Sur le pont d'Avignon,  
L'on y danse, l'on y danse,  
Sur le pont d'Avignon  
L'on y danse tout en rond._

Erik allowed himself to be swept up in the pure joy of the song, improvising and embellishing as he played. The crew enjoyed the performance, too. Some of them clapped in time to the music, while others sang along. A few of the braver ones got up and danced a lively jig, and Erik experienced, for a brief time, a feeling of being at peace with himself, and the world. He looked at these men with admiration—singing, laughing, dancing, enjoying each other's company, and freely admitting Erik into their brotherhood.

_Maybe these men are not of the better classes, but in their own way, they are more real, more honest than many another I have known._

A little sigh escaped his lips and he broke into a smile.

_If only life could remain like this_—_free from care and worry. _

He laughed at himself for having such prosaic thoughts.

_Admit it. You're interested in living again, that's what it is. No matter how insignificant, you're a member of society now, even if it is the society of bargemen. _

After several more songs, Erik reluctantly returned the instrument.

"No, my friend," said Aldric. "You keep it. You put my poor playing to shame. The instrument, she needs someone like you to make her sing."

"I cannot accept this," Erik said, stunned by the man's generosity. "At least allow me to pay you for it."

"Pah! One does not pay for a gift. Take it, I insist."

Erik gave in. "You know I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't be around to play. No, you'd better keep it."

Aldric made a face. "What? Not good enough for you?" he said jokingly.

"It isn't that. It's only…" Erik hesitated. What was he going to say, that no one had ever given him a gift before? Now that would put a damper on things, make him sound pathetic. No, he should just say thank you and shut up. "I don't understand. Why would you give this to me?"

"Because, I want you to have it!"

"I don't understand." Erik said.

"I like you, Jean!" Aldric slapped Erik on the back. "You're a good man, _mon ami_. You don't get drunk, you don't talk too much...and you know how to make her sing." Aldric nodded at the violin.

"I'll take care of it," Erik said as he ran his fingers lovingly across the f holes. As far as he was concerned, this common fiddle was more precious than any Stradivarius. "Thank you."

-0-0-0-

Later, the men broke up into smaller groups—some talking, some napping. Erik walked to the stern and watched the sun as it set, the sky aglow with golds, and oranges, and reds. He needed be alone—to come to terms with what was happening around him, to him. These little friendships, small though they were, were a new experience. He wanted these memories to last forever. He started thinking of another former friend and pulled the ring out of his pocket, wondering what Christine was doing. He turned the ring in his fingers, watching the facets of the diamonds sparkle and they caught the fading light of the sun.

_I wonder if they're married yet. Do they live in town? Is she preparing for bed at this very moment? Is her young man brushing her hair, running his fingers through those chestnut curls, caressing her shoulders, her—_

"She dump you for some pretty boy?"

Erik turned, startled out of his reverie. He hadn't heard Captain Theudebert come up behind him, and he certainly wasn't in any mood to discuss Christine. He closed his hand around the ring and responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Want some advice?" Theudebert offered. "Forget about her. If all she worries about is a handsome face, she's not worth having. Look here, Jean—or whatever your name really is—the world's a big place. Not every woman is looking for an easy ride. Some actually want a man. A real man, if you get my drift."

Erik didn't know whether to thank the man for his well-meant advice or to cold-cock him for butting into private thoughts. "You worry me, Captain Theudebert. I'm beginning to wonder if you've been on board the boat too long."

Theudebert erupted into hearty guffaws as he caught Erik's meaning. "Stickin' my nose where it doesn't belong, eh?"

"No big deal," Erik said. "I made a mess of things. She chose the better man."

"If you say so."

Erik slipped the ring back into his pocket. "So, _mon_ _capitaine_, what is it you came to see me about?"

"I want to know if there's any way I can change your mind about leaving. You're an asset to this crew. You're a quick learner; you're dependable and carry your load. And most of all, you keep your nose clean. Besides, I hate training new men. Any chance at all I can talk you into making another trip?"

"No," Erik said, shaking his head slowly. "I think it's time I moved on."

"Well, then, maybe I can help. If you ever find yourself in Marseille and in need of work, look up my old friend, Jacob Englehorn. Yes, he's a _boche_, a thickheaded German, but I don't hold that against him. He usually sails from Marseille to North Africa—Algiers, mainly—on a tramp steamer called _The Venture_. Tell him I sent you."

"Will that assure me of a job?"

Theudebert scratched his stubble-covered chin. "Hmm, perhaps you're right. Maybe you _shouldn't _mention my name."

That made both men laugh.

"Well, goodnight then," the captain said, turning to leave. "Stop by and see me tomorrow. I'll have your pay by then and you can be on your way."

-0-0-0-

In spite of the distraction from his problems that the hard work had given him, Erik knew there was no future for him on the canals. It was time to move on. And so, while the rest of the crew prepared the _Bonne Amie_ for its return trip north, Erik collected his pay, said his good-byes, packed up his few belongings, and left. He followed no specific path, but headed in a generally southerly direction, following the river. He considered Theudebert's recommendation of looking up Jacob Englehorn . Maybe he would.

The days grew shorter as summer slowly faded into autumn. The weeks went by, but the weather remained warm. There was no sense of urgency, no need to hurry. The authorities no longer were searching for him, and so he permitted himself to enjoy the countryside. It had been many years since he'd been in southern France, not since…not since the years he'd lived with the gypsies. In those years, he didn't have time to look at the scenery. It was all he could do to survive. But today? Today, things were different.

He traveled through Burgundy, noticing the brightly colored _toits bourguignons_, the roofs made of glazed tiles of terra cotta, green, yellow and black and arranged in geometric patterns, a trademark of the region. His path took past woods and fields. He listened to the songbirds in the trees, and could hear the faint sounds of the barking of a dog on a distant farm. His artist's eye took note of the colors of the landscape—the greens of trees and vegetation, the yellows of fields of mustard, and the golds of ripening wheat. He took pleasure in the rustling of undergrowth when he walked through wooded or semi-wooded areas, and smiled when serenaded by the chorus of cicadas on late summer afternoons. The weather held up, and on most days, there were blue skies punctuated with cumulus clouds. But occasionally the winds picked up, annoucing an incoming storm, and Erik would take whatever shelter he could find.

The further south he went, Erik could hear the changes in the dialects spoken, especially in the rural areas. Although the cities were quite "Frenchified," many of the country folk still spoke the _langue d'Oc_, the old tongue of the Occitan that was more closely related to Catalan than to the French of the north. The region he was going through now had a long standing tradition of heresy and steadfast rebellion.

Centuries ago, this land did not belong to the French. It was the land of the Cathars, people branded as heretics by the kings of the _langue d'oïl_, the northern part of France, and the Roman Catholic Popes in the 13th century. Long and bloody crusades were carried out against these people, subjugating them to the will of the North. But its occupants had long memories, helped by the remoteness of many of the villages with their little-travelled byways. With this history of occupation and resistance to submission to the "modern" France of Paris and the north, these people were often distrustful of _Parisiens _or_ Nordistes_, as they derisively refer to the French.

They seldom spole their own language in the presence of "foreigners," but sometimes Erik heard them talking to each other in Occitan when they thought he couldn't hear, or understand. Erik wasn't fluent in the language of the South, but knew enough words to have a general idea of what was being said, and found it ironic to be looked upon with suspicion more because of his Frenchness than for his appearance. He allowed the locals to think him ignorant of what was being said, and moved on.

He continued south, always south, towards the coast, with the landscape gradually rising from scrubby hills to cool, wooded highlands. Off to the west were the forbidding peaks of the Montagne Noir, with great rivers cutting their way through the hills. Erik avoided them, and instead passed through vineyards and grain fields, groves of olive trees and openings of oak trees. Often in the distance, he could hear the bells of villages as the winds of Provence, which marked the changing of seasons, passed through the bell towers.

Eventually, Erik approached the coast line. He journeyed past the Calanques, a series of narrow fjords carved out of the limestone massif, and turned southwest toward Marseille, with its stretches of beaches and harborage.

-0-0-0-

Marseille was a busy port city, a bustling place of industry and manufacturing. It was in this city in 1798 that Napoleon had gathered his troops—38,000 crewmen and 167 scientists—for a mission that was to unveil Egypt's mysteries. Once the Barbary pirates had been eliminated in the 1830s, maritime trade had opened with northern Africa, mainly Algiers, and this had help raise the prosperity of the city. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 had only increased the wealth of Marseille. Marseille's importance was reflected in many of its monuments, such as the obelisk, originally from Luxor in Egypt and now at the Palace of Mazargues, the Porte d'Aix, a triumphal arch marking the old entry point to the city on the road from Aix-en-Provence, and the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, high atop the signal hill, its statue of Our Lady looking down upon all of the city.

Erik avoided the higher class parts of the city, and instead rented a room near the Vieux Port, the Old Port, above a seedy-looking tavern. Here, near the old port, shabby characters were not out of the ordinary. It was the perfect place to hide in plain site. He made several inquiries for the _Venture_, but found that she was not due back for another month. So he found work as a stevedore, turning up at the docks in the morning, almost always finding someone willing to employ him for the day.

He considered where he would go. That is, if he actually signed on as a member of the _Venture_'s crew. His thoughts kept taking him back to the Middle East, and if he had been a believer in signs, he might have taken more notice to portents that kept pointing east—a visit to a used book stall where he spied a book about Egypt, or a poster from a production of Verdi's _Aida_ that fluttered by in the wind.

When Englehorn and the _Venture_ finally put into port, Erik already had a good idea where he wanted to go.

-0-0-0-

"_Imbécile!"_ the man on deck shouted, waving a piece of paper in his hand. _"Dummkopf!__Arschloch!"_

Erik looked up and saw Jacob Engelhorn frantically pace to and fro on the deck of the _Venture_. He had been checking out the _Venture_ ever since she put into harbor, learning who the crewmembers were, and making sure he got work with the other stevedores handling the goods on this ship. They'd spent the better part of yesterday working the pulleys and wenches to unload the goods brought back from Northern Africa—baskets, rugs, pottery, dates, grains, fruits, vegetables, brass and copper goods, olives, and wool. Today, they were lashing together the parcels of goods the teamsters had been bringing throughout the day and waiting on the docks to be loaded—casks of wines and liqueurs, silks, other textiles, and an assortment of unmarked crates.

Erik had spoken to the first mate earlier that day, an American named Driscoll, and expressed an interest in the ship's intinerary.

"We don't follow any particular schedule, but usually go to Algeria, Libya and Egypt before returning to Marseille," Driscoll explained. When he asked why the interest, Erik mentioned he'd been thinking of hiring onto a ship like the _Venture._ Driscoll said he'd keep him in mind should there be a need for a new crewman.

Right now, Erik watched as the first mate stood out of the captain's way, amazed at the man's ability to swear fluently in both French and English.

"What is it this time?" Driscoll finally asked, once Englehorn paused to take a breath.

The wiry captain ceased his pacing and waved the paper in his mate's face. "Can't you read?"

"Not when you do that."

The captain gave a snort of disgust and handed the note to the mate. "It's from that _schweinhund_ Benoit, wanting me to bail his ass out of jail. Seems he went and got himself drunk last night. Started a brawl over at that whorehouse he's always talking about and got thrown in the hoosegow." He began pacing again.

"The _what_-gow?"

"_Was ist los?_" Englehorn growled. "What don't you understand? Hoosegow. Jail."

"Why is this a problem?"

"Because this leaves me shorthanded, and I can't wait for that _arschgesicht_ to get out. _Gott im Himmel!_ I've got a schedule to meet and cargo to move!"

The first mate nodded towards the stevedores working on the docks below and gave Erik a nod. "Why not hire one of them? I betcha good money at least one of 'em would be interested in sailing with us."

"We don't know anything about any of them. What makes you think we can trust any of them?"

"What made you think you could trust Benoit?"

Englehorn nodded. "Good point."

They walked over to the railing, scanning the dockworkers. "That one's been asking about the _Venture_."

"He has? Did he say why?"

"Said somebody named Theudebert told him to look you up."

"That ugly cuss?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Erik's mouth. He'd been called much worse in his life.

"This might work out after all." He shouted down to Erik. "Hey, you! My mate here tells me you've been asking about signing on, that my old friend Theudebert sent you my way. Turns out, I'm short a crewmember. The work's hard and we'll be at sea for several months, but the pay's good. You interested or not?"

Erik set aside the load he was carrying and stepped closer to the _Venture_. "I might be. Your first mate tells me you're sailing to Africa. That true?"

"_Ja, _we'll be stopping at ports in Algeria, Libya and Egypt."

His mind was already made up, but Erik made a show of considering the offer. "Anything else I need to know, other than how to do a day's work?"

"_Nein_." Englehorn invited Erik aboard the _Venture._ The two men discussed pay, and an agreement was quickly reached. "You got family, maybe a lady in town you need to say good-bye to?"

"No, no attachments."

"_Das ist gut._ Any other questions?" Erik shook his head no. The captain laughed. "Good man. The fewer the questions, the better for all involved. Report here tonight at six. We leave tomorrow at dawn."

-0-0-0-


	5. Cairo

**Treasures of Egypt  
by HDKingsbury  
****Copyright © 2008  
**

**Chapter 5  
****Cairo  
****  
-0-0-0-**

"_It is a real comfort to live in a nation of truly well-bred people and to encounter kindness after the savage incivility of France."_

**Lucie Duff Gordon**

-0-0-0-

The _Venture_'s first stop was Palma de Mallorca, where they unloaded some of their cargo. From there, the steamer headed south by east towards Algeria. The voyage was relatively uneventful, if one didn't count the gale the second day out of Mallorca, or the near encounter with pirates off the Barbary Coast.

The day had started out ordinarily enough, when one of the crew spied an unmarked ship bearing down on the _Venture_. "It's pirates!" shouted Englehorn. The crew scrambled on deck and prepared to fight, grabbing whatever guns or weapons they could lay their hands on.

Somebody drew the canvas aside, revealing a six-barreled Gatling gun, and Erik found himself and the mate, Driscoll, manning the gun.

"I thought pirates had been eradicated from these waters," he said to Driscoll.

"Mostly they are," answered the mate, "but wherever there's water and ships, there'll be pirates. That's why we never leave port without this." He patted one of the barrels.

Englehorn looked through his glass. "It's Sakr-el-Bahr, the Hawk of the Sea."

"Should I have heard of this person?" Erik asked Driscoll.

The American shrugged. "Sakr likes to think of himself as the scourge of the Mediterranean. He boasts of being the terror of Christians, and the beloved of Asad-ed-Din, Basha of Algiers."

"You know him, then?"

"No, but him and the captain have met before."

The pirate ship drew closer, enough so for Erik to see the individual men on her deck, and stopped within hailing distance of the _Venture_.

"Is that you, my old friend?" a tall man wearing Eastern-style armor over his clothes shouted in French. This was Sakr-el-Bahr himself.

Erik glanced over at the captain, an almost detached curiosity taking over as he found himself more interested in how this was all going to play out than in whether or not he and the crew would get emerge from this situation unscathed.

Englehorn cracked a wry grin. _"Ja,_ it's me. What you want?"

The pirate captain bowed with exaggerated courtesy. "I thought to offer you the protection of my ship as you sail to Algiers. One can't be too careful in these waters. You never know when you will run into pirates."

"_Ja,"_ nodded Englehorn. "So I've heard, but I'm not so worried. My men and I, we can take care of ourselves." He waved a hand towards his crew, the men bristling with weapons, all trained on the pirate ship.

Sakr-el-Bahr laughed. "Yes, I can see that. So now you carry a Gatling gun?"

"I carry one ever since a run in I had down near Tripoli. You may have heard of it?" Englehorn asked, already knowing the answer.

The Hawk of the Sea flashed a toothy grin in Englehorn's direction; then he said something in Arabic to his second-in-command. That man, in turn, shouted orders to the crew of the pirate ship. Erik caught a few phrases, remembering enough of the language from his earlier years in the Middle East to understand that they were preparing to move off. Sakr-el-Bahr was obviously satisfied with the turn of events, and gave his attention back to Englehorn. "I shall bid you a good day, then," he said, "and may Allah be with you."

And with that, the pirate ship sailed off. When it was finally out of sight, the crew of the _Venture_ relaxed.

"Those pirates, they know not to fool with Jacob Englehorn!" the captain proclaimed.

"You've had encounters with this one on previous voyages," Erik remarked.

"You could say that," Englehorn replied cryptically, but would say nothing more.

None the worse for wear, the steamer continued on her way. There were no more meetings with pirates, and the rest of the voyage was uneventful. They made stops at Oran, El Jazair and Tunis, unloading and loading trade goods. Then, it was east, hugging the northern coast of Libya with stops at the ports of Tarabulus and Banghazi. At each point, Erik took the time to visit the cities, especially the markets. The various dialects encountered there enabled him to improve his knowledge of Arabic, which he would need to be familiar with if he wanted to mix in with the locals. Their last stop was in Egypt, where the _Venture_ put in at Alexandria.

After more than two months at sea, Erik was ready to say good-bye to the sailor's life and keep his feet on _terra firma_. Years ago, during his first trip to the Middle East, he had been offered a chance to see the pyramids, but foolishly turned it down. He had regretted that decision ever since. Now, with Cairo only a few days' journey up the Nile, he wasn't going to miss a second chance.

He said his good-byes to Englehorn and Driscoll, collected his wages, packed what few belongings he had into the worn, old carpetbag Hélène Giry had given him a lifetime ago, and headed into the heart of the city. There he found himself temporary lodging, and dashed off a brief letter to Hélène—no names, places or dates, just something to let her know he was alive.

He visited the bazaars where he traded in his eye patch and European garb for clothes that were less likely to stick out. Taking advantage of the local costumes, Erik attired himself in robes and donned the _keffiyeh_, or headscarf, wrapping the ends around his face, effectively concealing his disfigurement other than the drooping of the right eyelid.

Nothing remained of the pale, soft-skinned man who had lived in his own form of luxury beneath the opera house. After months of working outside, his face was now tanned and weather-beaten, and dressed as he was, he was hardly distinguishable from the dark-skinned natives. The color of his eyes, an unusual shade of aquamarine, might give away his European heritage, but the only way someone would see them would be if he were to come too close, and Erik was not about to permit that happen, not if he could help it.

-0-0-0-

Upon his arrival in Cairo, Erik set about exploring the city. Blending in with the locals, he was able to walk the streets of the city unmolested. He encountered a virtual melting pot of humanity, and was able to hone his language skills. On a single street, he could see the richest of the rich rubbing shoulders with the poorest of the poor. He passed ragged _fellahs_ riding worn-out donkeys, elegant ambassadors and attachés perched atop high-stepping Arabian horses, and the myriad American and European tourists in hired carriages, some wide-eyed with excitement, gawking and pointing at everything and anything, while others bore more jaded countenances that evinced extreme ennui.

His strolls took him to the bazaars, where he found a riot of sight and sound and smell. He made his way through the narrow, winding streets, the tall buildings with awnings pulled across from side to side to provide shade giving the impression of walking through a canyon of mud brick. He passed sweetmeat bazaars, hardware bazaars, tobacco bazaars, sword makers, and Moorish bazaars where one could buy Fez caps, burnouses, and Barbary goods.

There were the stalls of the brass and coppersmith bazaars where one could buy anything from drinking cups to basins, ewers, trays, incense burners, and chafing dishes. Gold and silversmiths advertised their crafts, offering delicate chains, earrings, anklets, bangles, necklaces strung with coins or tusk-shaped pendants, and amulet cases of filigree and repoussé work. The textile merchants vied with each other for customers, offering silks from Lebanon, and gold and silver tissues from Damascus. There were the pungent aromas of the pipe and tobacco venders, alongside woodworkers selling stools and cabinets of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Slipper bazaars were filled with footwear of all imaginable kinds—red and yellow Morocco slippers, slippers with pointed toes, turned up toes, and round toes, walking slippers, slippers with tassels, and velvet slippers embroidered with gold and beads and seed pearls. The carpet vendors sold Persian and Syrian rugs, Turkish prayer-carpets, striped carpets from Tunis, shaggy carpets from Laodicea and Smyrna, and from Turkey, carpets woven in rich hues of blues and greens and reds.

Erik passed provision stalls that were filled with any and all supplies one would need for making the short trek to the Giza plateau and the Great Pyramids, or a longer voyage up the Nile. There were donkey-boys, their animals gaily decorated, and beggars with every imaginable deformity asleep on the steps of the mosques. Minarets stuck up in the air like fingers, and the calls of the muezzin could be heard above the din of the crowds, calling the faithful to prayer.

And more than anything else, there were people, crowds of people, hordes that ebbed and flowed like a noisy, restless, and ever changing tide. They came in all shapes, all sizes, and all colors. Some were entertainers, while others were workers. There were the _hakawati_, the storytellers, enthralling their audiences with tales of a thousand and one nights, and snake charmers with hooded cobras swaying in apparent time to the music of the flute. Veiled women carried water jugs to and from the local wells and fountains, street urchins ran wild, and dervishes whirled and twirled as they performed the _dhikr_, their dance that was a remembrance of Allah.

There were swarthy Egyptians and coal-black Abyssinians, Arabs and Nubians of every shade from golden-brown to chocolate, and they wore a rainbow of colors—from their long vests of striped Syrian silk that reached to their feet, to the richly colored sashes that cinched the vests at their waists, to the _gibbeh_, or outer robes, of cashmere in colors of maize, mulberry, olive, peach, sienna-brown, and sea green.

Erik visited the _Al-Qalaa_, the Citadel, admiring the ancient buildings that had been home to Egypt's rulers for 700 years and looked much the same as they had when the Turkish Sultan Selim conquered Cairo so many centuries ago. He passed through the _Bab el-Futuh_, the Gate of Conquest, which marked the northern boundary of the old Fatimid City, its massive arch carved from a single block of stone and bordered on either side by two round towers, and passed by the Mosque of Sultan Hassan, constructed back in the 1300s out of stones taken from the pyramids themselves.

And when he wanted to get away from the noise and the crowds, there were the gardens and orchards by the river's edge. Here, the air was filled with the fragrances of oranges, lemons, bananas and pomegranates. Sweetly scented but poisonous oleander bushes added their heady scent to the mélange, mixing with the fragrant banks of roses growing on trellises.

Looking out across the river at sunset, Erik watched the Nile as it flowed with stately majesty, looking like a river of gold, while above, the sky was touched with pinks and pale yellows. Yes, he thought, he could learn to love this land.

-0-0-0-

Erik wandered amongst the food vendors' stalls, trying to decide what he wanted to buy for supper. He had spent the day visiting the pyramids of Giza, on the west side of the river Nile. It had been an exhilarating experience, gazing upon these only survivors of the Seven Wonders of the World. He'd climbed to the top of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, its outer casing of finished limestone long vanished, and looked out upon the expanse of desert, river, and sky that spread out before him. Up there, he had felt like a king. Up there, he had imagined himself lord of all he surveyed. Then he'd laughed to himself as reality set in and reminded him that he was only Erik Rien—Erik Nobody.

As he walked, Erik became aware that he was being followed. Several times, he stopped in front of a window or some other reflective object, taking note of his tracker. Whoever the man was, he wasn't very adept. It was easy to pick out the tall, poorly dressed Nubian among the crowd. Erik suspected he was being sized up as a possible target for robbery. He reached inside his robe, felt the concealed length of rope he carried everywhere he went, and grinned mirthlessly.

As he continued wending his way through the streets, he noticed that not only was the Nubian following him, but someone--or several someones--were following the Nubian as well. These men, and there appeared to be three of them--a well-dressed, somewhat overweight man who may have been their leader, and two younger, brawny men--looked to be much more certain of what they were doing. Erik sighed. If the situation weren't so serious, it would almost be comical!

The assault took place long before the black man ever got close to Erik, and when it came, it came quickly and violently. The two strapping men grabbed hold of their struggling victim, each holding him with one hand, while raining blows down upon him with the other. The third man stood back and watched.

"Now, you will pay for insulting me, A'aqil," he said, a malicious grin of pleasure on his pudgy face.

"I did you no disrespect, Qutaybah," the man called A'aqil said as he struggled to protect himself from the onslaught of fists.

Erik chuckled in spite of the situation. He knew enough Arabic to recognize that the name Qutaybah meant irritable or impatient one. If a name could describe a person, Qutaybah's was more than appropriate.

A crowd quickly gathered 'round to see what all the commotion was about. The air was filled with shouts and screams—some from the attackers, some from the man being attacked, and many from the bystanders. A'aqil pleaded for help, but no one would step forward and give the man aid. Erik glanced at the faces around him and noticed looks of fear and apprehension. It was obvious that none of these people wanted to cross Qutaybah. Erik continued to passively witness the attack, and had begun to walk away. Whoever they were, he didn't know these people, and he certainly didn't feel he owed anything to any of them, but then he heard the words that changed his mind.

"Curses on your father, you wretched cur!" shouted Qutaybah. "You should be caged!"

_You should be caged!_

The sentence echoed in Erik's brain.

_You should be caged!  
__You should be caged!_

These same words had been seared into his mind years ago by another man, another bully. He looked at Qutaybah differently this time, taking special note of the man's arrogance and demeanor.

"I am not your animal, Qutaybah!" the black man screamed.

Erik turned to the person standing next to him, a wizened old man of small stature. "Who is this Qutaybah?" he asked.

The little man replied, "He is bad, very bad. He is a bully, and thinks that because he is wealthy, he can intimidate others. Qutaybah is well known for browbeating and harassing those who he believes are beneath him."

Erik looked around at the lack of action on the part of the bystanders. "He seems to have succeeded."

The little man nodded sorrowfully. "Of course! Anyone who opposes him is a fool."

Qutaybah's two goons, after pummeling their victim, dragged the black man before their master. "Now, you will apologize," one of them said, forcing A'aqil to kneel on the ground. A'aqil refused to be submissive and instead spat at Qutaybah's feet.

Infuriated, Qutaybah screamed every invective he could think of, calling A'aqil little better than a beast of burden, not worth the dirt under his feet, and worse. His body shaking with rage, he raised his hand over his head, and Erik saw for the first time that Qutaybah was carrying a club.

No, this would not do. He would not stand by and watch another man commit murder, and then he laughed softly to himself, thinking that not even one year ago, he had been so besotted with Christine, had cared so little for human life, that he had nearly killed a man who merely stood in his way. But that was then. Regardless of what he may have done, no man deserved to be beaten and humiliated while a crowd stood by and watched. Erik knew all too well what that was like. No, he would not stand by and allow this to happen.

Erik stepped forward. He was dressed like a Berber with his face covered. Only his eyes showed, flashing with emotions. His movement startled Qutaybah, who halted in his tracks.

"What exactly is this man's offense?" Erik asked in Arabic, outwardly calm but seething within. He slid his right hand inside his robe and held the Punjab lasso, making ready to strike.

"He insulted me, not that it is any of your concern--stranger," Qutaybah spat out the last word.

"Not very friendly, are you?" Erik went on, unperturbed. "You still haven't answered my question. What did this man do that insulted you?"

By now, others had come out of hiding and were watching the confrontation with great interest. "Be careful," someone said in a loud whisper. "That one, he is not someone you want to make an enemy of."

Erik laughed menacingly. "Neither am I, friend. Neither am I." He looked at A'aqil. "Since this 'gentleman' is reluctant to tell me what this is all about, perhaps you will be good enough to do so? What did you do to make him so angry?"

The black man put on a face of comic chagrin. "I drank one of his jars of beer and refilled it in a manner that displeased him." Everyone laughed, even Erik. Everyone, that is, except Qutaybah and his thugs. "I would not have done so, if this man had paid me for the work I did for him," A'aqil explained.

Erik looked back over at Qutaybah. "Do you owe him wages?"

Qutaybah sneered at A'aqil. "Him? His work is as worthless as he is. If he feels I cheated him, then why doesn't he take the matter to a magistrate?"

"Perhaps I should ask you the same. Now, why don't you be a good fellow, pay this man his wages—and maybe throw in a few extra coins for his injuries—and leave?"

"And why should I pay any attention to you?" said Qutaybah. "You're so vile, you do not even show your face, but hide it like some Tuareg bandit."

Erik's eyes narrowed as he stared down the other man. "To see my face is to see Death," he said ominously.

"You may frighten them with your childish talk,"—Qutaybah pointed to the crowd—"but you don't frighten me, you nameless nobody."

"On the contrary, I have many names, but in this part of the world, I am perhaps known best by the name once conferred upon me by the Shah of Persia—the Angel of Death."

Gasps and murmurs shot through the crowd, and Erik took a perverse pleasure in seeing that his reputation had neither diminished nor been forgotten over the years. The men who had attacked A'aqil released their hold on the man. Fear was plainly written on their faces and they looked to Qutaybah for instructions while A'aqil sat up and scooted out of the way.

"Ah!" said Erik with a malevolent chuckle, "I see that my name has preceded me, even after all this time."

"Bah! You are...are a faker!" Qutaybah sputtered, trying hard not to be intimidated. He took two steps forward, raising his club to strike at Erik, when the weapon flew from his hand and landed on the ground at his opponent's feet. He looked up and saw Erik calmly rewinding a coil of rope.

Erik looked over at the two goons. "If I were you, I'd leave now." They took his advice and ran off, leaving their master to face the Angel of Death—alone. Erik turned his attention back to Qutaybah. "Now, perhaps we can solve this matter amicably."

Qutaybah quivered. "I will not be frightened by you!" he said, his words contradicting his obvious fear. "You...you only say that you are the Angel of Death. Why should I believe you?"

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Good point. Shall I demonstrate?" The Punjab lasso shot out and Qutaybah's turban flew from his head. The crowd, having been holding its collective breath, broke out in laughter at the sight of the great Qutaybah being put in his place.

Red-faced with embarrassment, the bully bent down to pick up his turban when the lasso struck again. This time, his feet were pulled from under him, landing him on his backside with an inelegant thump. The laughter of the crowd was even louder than before. The tension was broken, and so was Qutaybah's hold on the neighborhood. Someone picked up a clump of donkey dung and threw it at him. Soon another clump of dung sailed through the air, and another, and another.

"Go home, Qutaybah! We don't want you here!" they were shouting as they continued to pelt him with dirt and dung. The heavy man struggled to his feet and started running off, many of the crowd following.

At last, the street was quiet again, or as quiet as a Cairo street could be. Some of the people followed the fleeing Qutaybah, taunting and insulting him. Others returned to what they had been doing before all the excitement had broken out. Several came up to Erik and tentatively offered their thanks, uncertain if it was truly appropriate to thank the Angel of Death. Erik dismissed their offers of appreciation with a gentle gesture of dismissal, and walked over to A'aqil. He offered the Nubian his hand and helped the other man to his feet.

He looked at the black man, taking in the man's features. A'aqil was tall, like Erik, with skin dark as coal. Erik thought his face could have been that of the pharaoh's of old—regal and noble, a face that should have been carved by a master sculptor.

"Are you truly the Angel of Death?" the black man asked.

"I've been called worse," Erik said indifferently. "And you," he said more sternly, "why were you following me? Did you think to rob me?"

"I am a poor man, Master," the Nubian offered by way of an explanation. "But I would not have hurt you, Master. My story is a sad one, but a long one, and I do not wish to burden you with it."

"Why not? I have plenty of time, and it is the least you can do for me since I saved your hide."

"True. You see, Master, I am poor as dirt. I came to this city after leaving my village in Nubia. I had hoped to make enough money to bring my sister up here, too, but things did not work out as I had hoped. It has been several days since I had something decent to eat, and so against my better judgment, I hired myself out to that man," he said, referring to Qutaybah. "When it came time to pay me my wages, he laughed at me and had me thrown off his property. I was wandering the streets, thinking to find myself some lunch--"

"With no money to pay for this food?" Erik interrupted.

The Nubian grimaced and then smiled. Erik had to admit, the man had an engaging personality. "What is your name?" he asked.

"I am called A'aqil, and I have decided to be your servant."

"For one who must live by his wits, you showed very poor judgment today." Erik said as he tossed A'aqil a cloth to wipe the blood off his face. "I don't need a servant, and even if I did, I couldn't afford one. And if I could afford one, I wouldn't hire a ragged beggar like you."

"I may be ragged," A'aqil protested, "but I am intelligent, I am handsome, and I can read. I not only speak Arabic, but French and English as well" he added with pride. "You are European, are you not? You are no Tuareg, or Berber. Your eyes betray you."

Erik was impressed in spite of himself. Perhaps A'aqil wasn't as hapless as he had first taken him to be.

"You're right," said A'aqil, giving in. "I am a poor servant, but then, you're a poor master. I shall obey your orders. You may beat me—within reason. In return, I shall steal from you—also, within reason."

"Then you admit you are a thief!"

"All men are thieves, Master; only the dishonest ones deny it." Then A'aqil stopped, staring at Erik, an expression of horror overtaking the Nubian's face.

Erik quickly turned his head, realizing that during the confrontation, his scarf had fallen. He covered his face and looked back to A'aqil.

"I told Qutaybah that to look upon my face was to see Death. I suppose you would like to reconsider your offer now."

A'aqil pondered the situation. "You're...you're not a leper, are you?"

"No. The problem with my face is not due to any disease, and it is not contagious."

A'aqil looked more closely at what he could still see of Erik's scarred visage. "Were you injured? Are these the honorable scars of old battle wounds, won while serving the Persian shah?" he asked hopefully.

"No, these are not battle scars."

"Then..."

Erik cut A'aqil off. "I'd rather not discuss this, if you don't mind," he snapped and walked away. But A'aqil had already come to a decision.

"But...Master! Where are we going?"

Erik turned around, surprised. "You mean...?"

A'aqil was grinning, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to his dark skin. He offered his hand. "If you can stand to help this miserable Nubian dog, I can surely tolerate a..." he paused and he pondered the proper word to use, "...an unhandsome European."

-0-0-0-

They walked through the bazaars, the two of them, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened earlier that afternoon.

"Have you considered growing a beard, Master?"

"Stop calling me Master. My name is Erik, and you're not my slave."

A'aqil chose to ignore the last remark. "A full beard coupled with a turban would effectively hide many of the scars and would help you blend in better with the rest of the populace."

"I notice you don't wear a beard."

A'aqil shrugged. "I am but..."

"I know, a poor, miserable Nubian dog."

"Besides," A'aqil continued, "the Prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—ordered Mohammedans to grow beards because he didn't want us to look like the pagans who were around at the time. Since there are no pagans, there is no real reason for me to wear a beard."

"I see."

Their meanderings took them past venders of foods, and Erik asked A'aqil if was hungry.

"If you remember, that is why I was going to steal from you in the first place, so I could buy enough food to eat."

"Then as your master, here is my first order. You are to accompany me and assist me in the purchase food stuffs, enough to last us for several days, and then you will join me in eating dinner."

A'aqil grinned. "Yes. We'll visit my friend, Abdulhafeez, first. He sells locusts."

Erik balked. "What?"

"He's right here!" A'aqil pointed to a food cart. "Yes, Master. Fried locusts. Here, try it." He took one and held it out to Erik. Erik declined the offer. "They are very popular treat. You fry them with garlic and tomato. You can also mince them and add them to jollof rice. Very good. Very spicy." He tried giving another one to Erik. "Eat, Master," A'aqil urged. He ate one as if to prove to a recalcitrant child that the food wasn't poisonous. "They're good! See?"

"But...that's a grasshopper!"

"I beg to differ, Master. It's a locust. Very nourishing; very good for travelers."

"You can have my share," Erik said, disgusted. Then, suspicious, he added, "What else do you suggest?"

A'aqil held up a sample. "Cooked scorpion, still in its shell!" he said proudly. "See? It looks as though it is still ready to attack!" he said, pointing to the raised tail with its barb intact.

"Perhaps something more...traditional," Erik suggested.

A'aqil laughed, his humor infectious. "You mean, something more palatable to European tastes."

They found another food vender. "Try this, Master. It is very good."

"What is this called?" Erik asked skeptically, eyeing the assorted pots with the different ingredients. "Better yet, what's in it?"

"No snails, I assure you! And don't look so surprised. I'm not as ignorant as I appear. I've heard of what you Frenchmen consider a delicacy, and you complain about locusts! Now this, this is called koshary. It is a traditional Egyptian meal and is safe for you to eat. Look, here are the ingredients: there's pasta, rice, lentils, chickpeas, onions and garlic. These are mixed in with a spicy tomato and chili sauce, and topped with fried onions. This man, here," he pointed to the vender, "he will make yours up fresh." He turned to the food seller. "Two, please."

The koshary man grabbed a bowl and scooped a little of each ingredient into it, prepared the meal, and then handed it to Erik. "Try, sir. You like," he said, smiling.

Erik lifted the corner of his scarf and took a small bite. "It _is_ good!" he admitted with surprise.

A'aqil assumed an air of innocence. "Would I steer you wrong, Master?"

-0-0-0-

Later, they sat under some date trees, enjoying the rest of their afternoon meal. Erik did not remove his scarf, but lifted the corner slightly as he ate his food. He had no wish to upset A'aqil with the sight of his face again. They sat in amiable silence when A'aqil said, "You may want to put some distance between you and Cairo, Master."

"I told you before, I am not your master."

A'aqil grinned. "Yes, Master."

Erik shook his head. "And why would I want to leave Cairo?"

"You have angered and humiliated Qutaybah. You caused him great embarrassment today, ran him off like the coward he truly is. He will not take this kindly. Once he has regrouped his resources, he will come after you...and me."

"So, it's really your own safety that you're worried about."

"Is that so wrong? But I speak the truth. Qutaybah will come after you."

"And you suggest that I run from him like a dog with its tail between its legs? Have you forgotten that I am the Angel of Death?"

"No, Master. I am merely suggesting a—what do you Europeans call it?—a strategic redeployment."

Erik considered A'aqil's suggestion. "Do you have some place in mind?"

"Luxor, Master."

Erik sighed, exasperated. "I am not your..."

A'aqil waved aside the protests. "Yes. Yes. You are not my master. But what do you think of Luxor?"

"I've never been there."

"Then you are in for a special treat. There are many ancient temples and monuments there, and these attract many tourists. Think of the business opportunities, Master." He ignored Erik's groans. "These tourists are mostly Europeans. They all want souvenirs from their visit to the Land of the Pharaohs. We can set up a shop and sell quality antiques. I have studied how these are made."

"What? You are suggesting that we sell fakes?"

"No! No, fakes. Genuine reproductions!"

A harumph escaped from Erik. "You're not a very good Mohammedan."

A'aqil shook his head. "There are good and bad Mohammedans, just as there are good and bad Christians. Some Mohammedans are very devout, never failing to perform their ablutions and say their prayers. Others would never dream of doing so. Some will not touch wine, while others appreciate a good claret. Me? I consider myself pragmatic."

Erik nodded his head. Pragmatism had its appeal. "A practical man," he muttered, as he fingered the diamond engagement ring he still carried in an inside pocket.

_I've spent years being impractical, throwing everything I had into winning Christine's hand. Maybe it is time I started making a living instead of mooning over a life that can never be._

"I'll go to Luxor," Erik said at last, "and you may come with me, as long as you promise not to tamper with my beer."

A'aqil laughed heartily and raised both hands in the air, making a promise. "Your food, your drink, these are out of bounds, Master!" He shook his head and added, "You may have saved my wretched hide, but loyalty has it limits. Everything else is fair game."

"Try it. You may find yourself missing old Qutaybah," Erik responded warily, knowing this was the beginning of a game between them. Could A'aqil take something of Erik's without getting caught? Would he try? Only time would tell, and Erik found himself looking forward to the game.

-0-0-0-

**Notes:**

A _fellah_ (pl. _fellaheen_) is a peasant, farmer or agricultural laborer in the Middle East; derives from the Arabic word for ploughman or tiller.

Koshary is a kind of Egyptian "comfort" food. Recipes can be easily found online. Just Google "koshary".

A _gibbeh_ is a kind of overcoat

Repoussé is a method of embossing a metal sheet by punching and hammering a design from the back, then polishing it up in front with a chasing hammer.

-0-0-0-

I included several nods to other movies and books in this chapter. Some of them you may have picked up on, but in case you didn't, here they are. (For those of you who spotted them, give yourself a pat on the back and help yourself to some virtual cookies, fresh from the virtual oven!)

Englehorn, Driscoll, and the _Venture_ are "borrowed" from the 1933 movie, _King Kong_ (although in my mind, Englehorn looks more like Thomas Kretschmann in the '05 remake than Frank Reicher in the original).

Sakr-el-Bahr, the Hawk of the Sea, is the main character in the classic Sabatini swashbuckler, _The Sea Hawk_ (not to be confused with the Errol Flynn film that borrowed the title of the book but not the story).

And part of the conversation between Erik and A'aqil is adapted from a similar scene between Edmund Purdom and Peter Ustinov in the 1954 film, _The Egyptian_.

-0-0-0-

Amelia Edwards' book, _A Thousand Miles up the Nile_ was a great help with descriptions of Egypt in the late 19th century. Ms. Edwards made her trip in 1874 and published her account in 1877. It is a great resource for understanding how Europeans saw Egypt of that era -- the sights, the sounds, their attitudes -- and I referred to it often (and sometimes "borrowed" a phrase here and there) while working on this chapter. The entire book, complete with scans of the original illustrations, is online. Again, just Google the title.

Also great for getting a European's view of 19th century Egypt are the letters of Lucie Duff Gordon (not to be confused with Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon, who was on the Titanic and survived). She lived in Luxor several decades before the time during which my story takes place, but her letters provide a fascinating look at life in Luxor. Her letters, written mainly to her husband and mother, were published as _Letters from Egypt_. The book can be downloaded at the Project Gutenberg website.

And last, but hardly least, a big **THANK YOU** to Lizzy for her beta'ing skills, and her suggestions regarding various scenes, several of which found their way into this chapter (and into this story in general).


	6. Elizabeth Brackenstall

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 6  
****Elizabeth Brackenstall**

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_"She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability."  
_**Oscar Wilde, **_**The Important of Being Earnest**_

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_Luxor - Five Years Later  
__December 1886_

Many Europeans and Americans came to Egypt for the winter season of 1886-87. The climate at this time of the year was said to be perfect. It was sunny, dry, and not unpleasantly hot. During the winter months, the daytime temperatures were more than tolerable for those not acclimated to the desert's heat and a far cry from the summer months when the mercury regularly soared into the low 100s. The nights were cool, and could sometimes be downright chilly.

Visitors came to Egypt for many reasons. Some of them came for their health, hoping that the warm environment would bring about an improvement in their wellbeing. Artists came, too, sketchbooks and easels in hand, searching for temples and other exotic ruins such as the Giza pyramids, the Great Sphinx, or _el-Colossat_—the Colossi of Memnon—to draw or paint. Sportsmen came, drawn by the prospect of bagging a crocodile or a hippo. Occasionally there came statesmen taking a break from their onerous duties and coming out for a holiday. Special correspondents for the various European news agencies came, always alert for gossip from the court of the Khedive, and, of course, there was the usual surplus of tourists who traveled for the mere love of the journey.

Interspersed among this disparate collection of tourists and businessmen were collectors. These were the people who were on the trail of papyri and mummies and ancient art. There were also men (and women) of science, archaeologists who had only scientific ends in view. They specialized in studying the ancient land of the pharaohs, and called themselves Egyptologists. Among these Egyptologists was a woman named Elizabeth Brackenstall who, with her husband Leonidas, was at Luxor where the two of them were engaged in their fifth season of archaeological expeditions.

-0-0-0-

It was just before dawn at the end of the second week of the Brackenstall expedition, at a dig site not far from Luxor at what had once been the ancient capital city of Waset, or Thebes. The dig was situated near the temple complex once known as Ipet-isut, as it had been called by the ancients, but better known as Karnak.

Elizabeth Brackenstall woke up in the three-room hut that she and her husband, Leo, were using as living quarters while in the field. It was winter, the season of archaeological digs in Egypt, when the weather was more clement. Nevertheless, the season was short and the cooler temperatures wouldn't last forever. By spring, the heat would return in earnest, a time when only mad dogs and Englishmen dared go out in the noonday sun, and Elizabeth wasn't so sure about the Englishmen. Regardless, it was time to get up and get to work.

She looked around the room. Their lodgings weren't much to talk about, but when one was out in the field, one could hardly expect to live in the lap of luxury! Besides, it wasn't as if Leo's money would last forever. He may have been the youngest son of Lord Henry Brackenstall, but his allowance, which would have been enough to permit them to live comfortably if they were more frugal in their ways, was barely enough to finance these expeditions year after year. Not without something to show for them, that is, and unfortunately, that was the problem. While previous expeditions had rewarded them with fascinating shards of pottery and pieces of everyday life, they had not found anything of museum quality—no jewels, no fabulous works of art, nothing that would pay them back for the time and money involved. Leo was becoming frustrated and resentful.

This was not what he had anticipated. He had come to Egypt with his wife full of great expectations of making a name for himself. Instead, he found himself living in a rude mud hut, with barely any of the amenities to which he was accustomed. Elizabeth knew that if given his druthers, Leo would prefer to spend the season at the elegant new Winter Palace Hotel. There, he would be able to hobnob with fashionable society and leave the actual work to the locals with Elizabeth overseeing of day-to-day operations, and perhaps once or twice a week he would visit the dig, like a local lord deigning to call upon the hirelings.

_No_, she reproached herself; _that is not the way to think!_

She rose from her cot and looked out the small window. The sun was breaking the horizon, and Elizabeth smiled—seeing beauty where others saw only the stark and barren desert landscape. She watched the subtle change of colors, of the sand turning from dull brown to gold as the light touched it, and the sky turning from dark blue, to pale blue, to white as the sun edged up higher into the sky. The myths of the ancients crossed her mind, and she imagined Amun-Ra, the sun god, riding across the sky in his sacred barque. But enough of daydreaming.

She pulled herself away from the window and went to over to the makeshift dresser Leo had put together for her and combed her hair, noticing as she pinned it up how the sun had bleached gold highlights into her normally light brown hair. Next, she selected her clothes for the day. She chose apparel that was both practical yet feminine, clothes that would allow her as much freedom of movement as possible out here in the field while still meeting society's demands that, even in the most primitive of circumstances, she look like a woman. Elizabeth sighed.

What would she not give to wear trousers like a man! Thinking of the simple freedoms men enjoyed—freedoms denied 'respectable' women in society—brought Leo back to mind.

Despite her wishes and protestations, they were stuck digging at an unproductive site because her husband had believed there was temple treasure buried somewhere nearby. She had tried to talk him into digging on the west bank, closer to the Valley of the Kings. She'd tried to explain that if he hoped to make a spectacular find, this was not the place. But he was certain he knew better. She reluctantly acquiesced to Leo's request, suspecting that the real reason he preferred to stay on the east bank was so that he could remain closer to Luxor and such facilities as it offered, as opposed to camping out in truly primitive fashion, but after two weeks, it was looking more and more as if she had been right all along, and this had put Leo in a surly mood of late.

After five years of marriage, she knew her husband well. It wasn't that she disliked Leo. Not in the least! He was, after all, quite attractive in the mischievous schoolboy way of his, but part of her felt unfulfilled. Leo had never been anything but kind to her, even when he was in a sour mood, but there had never been any real love in the marriage. Theirs was a marriage of convenience more than anything else. She knew she was being unrealistic if she expected high romance. Marriages were not about love and affection, but about practical things like financial security and a husband's good name. She chided herself for thinking like a dreamy-eyed girl when she should, instead, be grateful. She was the daughter of a well-respected, but poor, university professor, and had grown up in genteel poverty, pinching every possible penny to save enough to attend university. Thanks to Leo, she now had the social status due the wife of a member of the noble Brackenstall family, and in return, she provided her husband with the veneer of expertise in the world of Egyptology. It was a good arrangement all around.

Not uncommon among archaeologists of the day, Leo was more interested in making a big find, preferably the discovery of a horde of gold or fabulous jewels, than in forwarding the study of the ancients. Elizabeth was much more modern, more scientific in her approach to Egyptology, and hoped that her work would help in the understanding of the culture and the lives of these long-gone people. She smiled to herself, remembering when a piece of papyrus had been found. Leo couldn't have cared less about it, unless it had been a treasure map with X marks the spot. Elizabeth, however, immediately set out to translate it, in case it shed any light on life in the time of the pharaohs.

Having finished her toilet, Elizabeth got up and knocked on the door to Leo's room. Her husband was seldom the first one out at the dig, and was often up late at night playing cards or drinking with the some of the American and European tourists who dropped by, excited at seeing a real "dig." There was no response. She opened the door, and was surprised to find his cot empty. In fact, it looked as though it had not been slept in.

She looked sadly at the empty cot, reminded once again that throughout this most recent trip to Egypt, Leo had not come to her bed. Yes, the cots were small, but that never stopped a married couple from finding a way...

She stopped herself from thinking along such lines. No, Leo was only concerned for her comfort. There was no reason to read more into the situation other than the obvious. Well, there was nothing she could do here, so she grabbed her hat and headed out to the dig site, hoping to find her wayward husband out there.

-0-0-0-

"No, Sitt. Mister Leonidas is not here," said Ra'id. Though he joked about his being an old man, Ra'id was, in fact, just past his fortieth year, his hair and moustache showing only the smallest touches of gray.

Elizabeth shook her head in dismay. She had found Ra'id, their foreman for the past five seasons, near the trench Leo had wanted dug, a trench he was certain would reveal the underground cache he was searching for. "Have you seen him at all?"

"Yes, Sitt. Mister Leonidas, he left before dawn. He said to tell you that he was meeting someone and would be checking out a new site."

"What? Another site?"

"Yes. He said to say to you, not to worry, that he will return in a few days."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and looked about, contemplating what needed to be done next. "Thank you, Ra'id. I appreciate you passing this on to me. Is there anything else I should know about?"

Ra'id furrowed his brows. "There is the matter of the _baksheesh_."

"What _baksheesh_?" She was getting angry. Leo hadn't mentioned anything about a bonus for the workers.

"Mister Leo, he promised double _baksheesh_ if the men got the trench finished today."

A sigh of disgust came unbidden from Elizabeth as she tried to figure out where she was going to get the money, since Leo normally handled these matters. "Thank you again. I'll see that the men are properly paid."

Ra'id bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you, Sitt. I shall go now and get the men to work."

She gave the man an absent-minded nod and strode over to the dig site, frustrated once again. Wasn't this just like Leo, she thought, to go off gallivanting and having fun while leaving the work to everyone else? Of course, if something important were found, he'd take all the credit.

-0-0-0-

A week had passed, and Leo still had not returned. Elizabeth was getting worried. Initially, she hadn't been too concerned. It also wasn't uncommon for Leo to disappear like this. As far back as their first dig, her husband had displayed the unfortunate habit of going off on his own, thinking himself an expert and knowing how to find a promising site. He usually sent word within a day or two at the most, so that Elizabeth would not worry, and so she hadn't.

In fact, she had enjoyed the freedom to run things her way. Too many times, Leo was lackadaisical when it came to running things. The workers picked up on this and were not always the most conscientious when it came to fulfilling their obligations. Elizabeth had other ideas. If the laborers expected double _baksheesh_, they needed to earn it, and within two days, she had things running much more smoothly and more productively.

But now, a week had passed. This was not normal, even by Leo Brackenstall's standards. The hairs went up on the back of her neck as a sinking feeling hit the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. She tried not to let on that she was worried, but Ra'id could tell that she was troubled.

"You must not worry, Sitt. Mister Leonidas, he is a man and can take care of himself," he said.

Elizabeth managed a wry smile, knowing that her husband's gender did not guarantee anything. Passively waiting for something to happen had never been her way, so instead of sitting back and waiting for the other shoe to fall, she decided it was time to play detective.

She went back to their quarters and started by taking a quick look around his room. She had no idea what she was looking for, but hoped that whatever it was, it would make itself known before long. The room was small, and after almost half an hour's search, her efforts had resulted in nothing but a pile of dirty clothes. Then she spied his footlocker sitting off in the corner, which in itself was odd as he usually kept the trunk at the foot of his bed where he used it as a bench. She unfastened the latches and opened the lid, finding the usual array of clothes, clean this time. She lifted some shirts to see if anything had been hidden underneath them and was about to give up when her hand struck something hard.

Moving the clothes aside, she found buried at the bottom of the trunk an exquisite piece of wall painting, about twelve inches square. On the piece of painted plaster, there was a figure that had once been part of a larger grouping. From the headdress on the figure, it obviously represented a pharaoh, but the image looked nothing like the art they were used to seeing. She examined the piece as she held it gently in her hands, admiring the delicate rendering of the pharaoh's body—the elongated neck, the slender legs and heavy thighs, the thin arms outstretched in adoration of a sun disk, the curve of the abdomen—and recognized it immediately as being from the period of Khuenaten and the Disk Worshippers.

Stuck to the back of this mysterious artifact was a piece of paper with a name on it—Erik Rien—and an address. Elizabeth recognized the address as being on a street where there were many higher-class antique shops, a place where many tourists gathered. She closed the footlocker and took the artifact with her, and set off to find Ra'id again. She needed to know if this had been found here, near Karnak.

"Have you ever seen this before?" She showed the wall painting fragment to Ra'id.

"No, Sitt." She could tell by the expression on his face that the foreman was as puzzled by this as she was.

"Have you ever heard of a man named Erik Rien?"

"Ah, yes," said Ra'id. "I have never had any dealings with the man myself, but I have been told that he is very mysterious—never shows his face. He deals in rare art and antiquities, and his house is very nice, or so I am told." He paused, and then added. "Shall I go see this person?"

"No," said Elizabeth. "I'll call upon him myself."

She returned to the hut, changed into a more appropriate dress, and left for Luxor.

-0-0-0-

Once in the city, she had hired a horse and buggy to take her to the address on the paper, and soon found herself standing in front of the house of the mysterious Erik Rien. The two-storey building was an elegant melding of East and West, and painted a brilliant white that reflected the sun like polished alabaster. There were balconies on either side, and pillars flanked the front entrance. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door and, moments later, was greeted by a very tall Nubian dressed in a bright, white _galabeya_, the traditional tunic style garment worn by Egyptian men and women for centuries.

"I should like to see Mister Rien," she announced. She saw the frown on the man's face and repeated her request, this time in Arabic.

"Thank you, Sitt," the black man replied in perfect English. "I speak your language. I was simply surprised by your request." He didn't move or invite her in the house, but stood there, extending a small silver tray, waiting for her to place her calling card upon it, examining her as she stood fumbling with her reticule.

Damnation, but this man was aggravating, not to mention these silly gloves she had on! "Is there a problem with seeing Mister Rien?" she asked, unable to find her cards and not in the mood to play foolish games.

"No, not at all," he said, and recovering his manners, invited her into the house. "If you will follow me, I shall take you to the courtyard where you may sit in the shade and enjoy an iced tea, and I shall inform Monsieur Rien of your presence. And who shall I say is calling?"

"Mrs. Leonidas Brackenstall," she said, only a little mollified. She followed the man, and as they walked through the house, she got a glimpse of the various rooms, which were dark and decorated in deep, rich colors. Tapestries hung from the walls in all rooms, many of them very old and of museum quality. In fact, she thought, the whole house resembled a museum. There were cabinets and glass cases in which were displayed valuable artifacts, mostly Egyptian but from other countries as well—Etruscan, Assyrian, classical Greek and Roman.

In one room, there was a wall covered with various bladed weapons, while in another, there was an eclectic collection of mostly Middle Eastern instruments obviously arranged for display, not for use. Elizabeth's attention was drawn to the center of the collection where an old, rustic fiddle had been placed, as if in a place of honor. But for all this, they look unused, and unloved. She wondered once again what kind of man this Erik Rien was, and imagined a collector who was more interested in possessing than in the possessions themselves.

They entered the courtyard. The floor was tiled in various shades of turquoise, and around were all four sides were many pieces of statuary surrounded by greenery—fruit trees, date palms and white-blossoming jasmine trailing up the walls and trellises. In the center was a large fountain, its sparkling water catching the sun and reflecting it like little diamonds, blinking. Overhead were stretched awnings of brightly striped fabric that provided shade. It was an oasis of beauty and shade.

The Nubian showed her to a circular table and white whicker chairs and asked her to be seated, and a young woman came out of the shadows and served her iced tea.

"If the Sitt will wait, I shall inform Monsieur Rien that she is here."

-0-0-0-

Erik was in his study, perusing one of the books from German Egyptologist Karl Richard Lepsius's twelve-volume _Denkmaeler aus Aegypten und Aethiopien_, and glowered at A'aqil. "Who is this woman?"

"Mrs. Leonidas Brackenstall. She is an Egyptologist," A'aqil replied blandly, knowing full well that as one of the foremost dealers in antiquities in the city, Erik was well acquainted with the name even if he had never met the woman herself.

"Did she say why she's here?"

"No, but I'd be willing to wager that it has something to do with the scapegrace husband of hers."

"And what exactly do you know about Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall?"

"Oh...nothing," A'aqil said innocently. "Only the rumors. The same rumors you have no doubt heard, Master."

A smile curled on Erik's face behind the scarf he always wore over the lower half of his face, even in his own house. Leave it A'aqil to know the latest gossip, especially that having to do with the antiquities market. "And what makes you think I should I know anything about her fool of a husband?"

It was true; like A'aqil, he had heard of Leonidas Brackenstall, a mediocre Egyptologist at best, a man who was more interested in getting his name in the newspapers and finding buried treasure than in true archaeology.

A'aqil sad nothing, but stood back with an air of nonchalance.

"Oh, very well," Erik said with resignation, shutting the book. "I'll see the damned woman."

They walked to the courtyard, A'aqil following behind at a deferential distance more for show than any obsequiousness. Though the two worked more like full partners when it came to the antique shop that was attached to the house, A'aqil always played the toady in public or in front of guests. He learned more that way, as people, especially Europeans, were more than willing to dismiss A'aqil or think him just another ignorant native.

Erik paused before entering the courtyard, taking a good look at the woman waiting to speak to him before she noticed his presence. She wasn't exactly a beauty, but neither was she plain looking. If she hadn't been frowning so, she might have been pretty. Her light brown hair was trying desperately to escape the pins keeping it in place, and her clothes, while neat, were several seasons out of fashion. From the look on her face, she was not in a good mood. Erik rolled his eyes at no one; he was sure this was not going to be pleasant.

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth looked up as she heard footsteps, and saw Erik Rien as he entered the courtyard, with the Nubian servant close behind. She noticed immediately that he was dressed, not in a European suit, but in a black _galabeya_, elegantly decorated with gold cross-stitching and gold roping, and on his feet were black Moroccan slippers, also trimmed in gold. On his head was a turban, also black, and he kept the lower part of his face covered with a scarf. As he walked, she couldn't help but think that he appeared to float across the floor. It was obvious Monsieur Rien liked to play the role of a man of mystery, no doubt to compensate for some perceived shortcomings. She grimaced as she mentally shook her head. This was probably not going to go well. She stood up to meet him.

"I am Erik Rien," he said, introducing himself. He was polite but cool.

"Elizabeth Brackenstall," she replied, offering her hand.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Brackenstall," Rien replied, ignoring the outstretched hand and indicating that they should be seated. He nodded to his servant, who took his place by the doorway, out of the way but within sight and sound, and then clapped his hands. The servant girl who had served the iced tea earlier came into the room.

"Two more iced teas, if you please, Safa," Rien said to her. "And something sweet as well for Mrs. Brackenstall." He turned to Elizabeth. "Perhaps some fruit?"

"Thank you," she said, equally coolly. If he wanted to play this game, she would, too. "That would be very nice."

The young woman nodded in acknowledgment and left the courtyard, returning shortly with a tray, carrying the beverages and a large bowl of fresh fruit. After serving both, she disappeared back into the house. Elizabeth sipped her tea, while Rien toyed with his glass but didn't drink. After a few moments, he said, "Now then, Mrs. Brackenstall. How may I help you?"

"I understand you are considered something of an expert in Egyptian art, Monsieur Rien," Elizabeth said. She opened her reticule and removed the wall painting fragment, setting it on the table, in front of them. "What can you tell me about this?"

Rien picked up the piece and examined it, and while he was inspecting it, she inspected him. Now that she was close to him, she saw his hands and noticed that his fingers wre long and slender, like a musician's. And his eyes, a striking color of green, would have been attractive if it had not been for something obviously wrong with the right one. From a distance, it was not noticeable, but sitting across from him, she could see that the eyelid drooped. Perhaps this was why he covered his face, to hide a disfigurement?

"It is in the style of the heretic pharaoh," he pronounced, drawing her out of her reverie. "But as an Egyptologist, you already knew that. In fact, I'm sure you know more about this piece than I could ever tell you." He pushed the artifact across the table, back towards her. "So tell me the truth, Mrs. Brackenstall—why are you here?"

She bristled at his offhanded treatment, and did her best to control her temper, focusing on her purpose in seeing this ill-mannered man. She handed him a slip of paper. "This was with the artifact. What I want to know is why would my husband want to see you?"

Rien shrugged his shoulders and returned the paper. "How should I know?"

She could not believe that he would lie like this. "But...he had your name! Surely he came by to see you."

"My dear woman," he said, his voice patronizing.

She wanted to scream. By god, the man was looking at her as if...as if he were _bored!_ The insufferable lout!

"I buy and sell rare art and artifacts," he was saying. "I don't remember every person who comes to see me. Perhaps you husband was hoping to sell me this piece. I'm sure I could find a buyer for it and would be willing to give you a fair price for it. If you want to know more about how your husband came to posses it, why don't you ask him?"

"He's...he's away at the present," she faltered, uncomfortable with admitting even this much to a stranger. "That is why I am asking you."

"Perhaps he thinks I am some sort of expert on antiquities."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed as she regarded Monsieur Rien with renewed suspicion. She already didn't like this man with his exaggerated air of mystery. No doubt he was little more than a poseur, and the Eastern dress was all part of a charade that enabled him to exact higher prices for his goods.

"Are you saying that you are not?"

The odious man shrugged his shoulders. "I am a businessman, not a scientist. I can recognize most of the names of the pharaohs. I can tell you if a piece is Old, Middle or New Kingdom—and probably which dynasty it comes from—with a fair degree of certainty. I am also familiar with most of the best craftsmen in Luxor."

"Pah!" she exclaimed, his arrogant manner grating on her nerves. "You mean the frauds that create fake artifacts?"

Behind them, the Nubian emitted something that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a cough.

"I prefer to think of them artisans," Rien replied. "They are craftsmen of the highest order, and I am on good terms with some of the best. A few of them have even shared their secrets with me.

Elizabeth snorted in disgust. "Then I would have to say that you're no expert at all."

"On the contrary, madam," Rien replied icily. "I am an expert in antiques. But no, I am no expert in the science of Egyptology. I leave that to the _professionals_ such as yourself and your esteemed husband." The last sentence might have been a compliment, if it hadn't been for the scorn in his voice.

"Oh, you can keep your flattery."

She rose from her chair and wandered around the courtyard, attempting to calm down by admiring the statuary that decorated it. Many of them were life-sized. To one side stood the regal Amun-Re, one of the few human-headed members of the ancient Egyptian pantheon, wearing his plumed crown and staring out as if gazing at the universe, while across from him was Sobek of the crocodile head, symbolizing the fertility of the Nile. Hathor was there, too—goddess of love, beauty and music—depicted as a beautiful woman with cow's horns rather than her more usual bovine-headed aspect. Near the fountain was the frog Heket, emblematic of fertility. But the one Elizabeth was especially drawn to was the life-sized statue of the goddess Sekhmet, the warrior goddess of Upper Egypt, with her lion's mien eyeing them fiercely.

"Are any of these items fakes?" she asked. "Have you ever knowingly sold fakes?"

"These statues and all the other objects that decorate my house are genuine. As for selling fakes? I may have, on occasion, sold genuine reproductions."

"You're disgusting."

"So were the European tourists to whom I sold them."

This time, there was no disguising the fact that the Nubian was laughing. Further discussion was cut short when the serving girl, Safa, reentered the room. This time, Elizabeth got a better look at her, and noted that she appeared to be perhaps sixteen years of age, seventeen at most. As was customary among the women of Egypt, she was dressed quite modestly. Yet even her modest dress and face covering could not hide her beauty. How striking she was, thought Elizabeth, with her skin the color of ebony.

The girl approached Rien. "A moment, sir?" she said softly. She spoke in Arabic, but with the accent of one from south of the cataracts of the Nile. Elizabeth did not bother to inform either that she understood Arabic fluently.

"Yes, Safa," he replied to her in the same language. "What is it?"

"When you are finished here, will you be wanting your bath, Monsieur Erik?"

"Yes, and maybe a pedicure today as well."

Elizabeth wasn't sure, but she thought she saw Monsieur Rien wink at Safa, and the girl's eyes twinkled as if a private joke had just passed between the two of them.

"Yes, Master. All will be ready."

Elizabeth expressed her displeasure at such behavior, allowing an indignant groan to escape.

"Thank you," Rien said to the girl. "I'll be with you presently."

Safa had a natural grace, and as she left the room, her robes swayed provocatively and the little bells on her anklets tinkled as she walked.

Rien looked at Elizabeth, raising an eyebrow. "We have concluded our business, have we not?"

Elizabeth stammered. She wasn't accustomed to being caught off guard, but this man, this Frenchman, had her flummoxed. "She's still a child. How could you?"

He gestured indifferently. "Most girls her age are married. She chooses to work for me because her brother works for me."

"I'm appalled! He...he allows his own sister to...to...!"

"To what, Madame?" his voice was as calm and smooth as silk, but Elizabeth could see he was clenching and unclenching whitened fingers.

"You know very well! You...you _Frenchmen_ are all alike! Debauchery and sin!"

"Madame, if you consider a simple footbath debauchery, then I think we have solved the mystery of your husband's disappearance."

Elizabeth felt her face grow hot with embarrassment and anger. "Why I never!"

"Which is exactly why you find yourself in this predicament." He turned to go, but looked over his shoulder at her. "Perhaps you should try it some time. It would do wonders for your...constitution."

And Erik Rien left the room.

-0-0-0-

A'aqil had stood quietly nearby during his master's conversation with Mrs. Brackenstall—unobtrusive, but there nonetheless. This had become routine for the two of them, A'aqil guarding Erik's back, so to speak, especially as Erik often had to deal with less-than-scrupulous persons. A'aqil bristled silently at Elizabeth's suggestions that Safa was Erik's mistress, or worse. As he escorted her to the door, he used the opportunity to tell the English woman exactly what he thought of her implications.

"You are wrong about my master," A'aqil said as they neared the door.

"Whatever do you mean?" Elizabeth replied indignantly.

"About my master and my sister."

Elizabeth's jaw practically dropped. "Your...sister?" She now realized whom Erik meant when he mentioned Safa's brother.

A'aqil nodded, his black face stern. "There is nothing dishonorable in her being here, nor in how she is treated. He may be an infidel, but my master understands compassion and charity."

"Hmph," she snorted. "Charity? Compassion? From Monsieur Rien? Surely, you jest."

"I do not joke, Madam. My sister and I come from the south, from Nubia. We grew up in poverty. I came north, hoping to make enough money to send for her, to bring her to Luxor, where she could live a better life. While I was away, Safa was dishonored by an Englishman, a _Christian_"—he said the word with unconcealed contempt—"who cared for nothing but his own personal gratification. To this Englishman, she was nothing more than dirt under his feet. When I learned what happened, I spoke of it to my master. He took pity upon us both and told me to fetch her and to bring her back with me to Luxor. He even offered her work here, and he pays her very well. She is not his mistress; she is not his slave—she is his housekeeper. Nothing more—nothing less. To suggest otherwise dishonors both my sister and my master."

Elizabeth wasn't placated in the least. "That may be all well and good, but I understand Arabic quite well, and I heard the two of them talk about your sister giving Monsieur Rien a footbath. I also know that a Mohammedan woman would never touch the feet of a man who was not a relative, yet such unseemly behavior goes on under this roof—and apparently with your approval. What am I supposed to think?"

"I could reply that it is none of your concern, Sitt, but instead I will explain. Safa is normally shy, and Monsieur Rien has done his best to make my sister feel at ease. The two of them, they have developed this little joke about Monsieur being too embarrassed to let anyone see his feet, and my sister offering to give him a footbath. It is all quite innocent. So you see? It is best not to make judgments without knowing all the details."

There were several moments of awkward silence from Elizabeth and then she said, "Perhaps I was a bit rash in my assumptions."

A'aqil, always the perfect gentleman, replied flatly, "If you say so, Sitt." But his eyes, which were full of emotion, betrayed him. He watched her guardedly as she left the house and walked down the street. When she was out of sight, he returned to the courtyard and Erik.

-0-0-0-

"What did she really want?" A'aqil asked with bemused interest.

Erik grinned. He thought of her pacing in the courtyard, inspecting the statues as she tried to calm herself down, and found it interesting that she had stood near Sekhmet. Did this mean something, or was it purely coincidence? Was she telling him that, like a lioness, she was ready to fight to protect what was hers? "Apparently, she's under the impression that I know something about her wayward husband."

"And do you? Was that not Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall who came by last week with some tale of an undiscovered 18th Dynasty tomb?"

Erik threw back his head and laughed. "You are an impertinent fellow, do you know that?"

A'aqil accepted the compliment with a grin. "But, of course I am. You would not wish me to be any other, would you?"

"Not at all."

Safa returned to the courtyard. She bowed her head politely. "Your bath is drawn, sir."

"Thank you, Safa."

"And do not worry about what the Sitt says, Monsieur," she said. "She does not understand."

"That is very gracious of you, Safa."

She shook her head. "It is nothing. Perhaps, if I were in her place, I would be thinking the same thing."

-0-0-0-

Note:

Sitt is an honorific, equivalent to addressing a woman as "Mistress"

Baksheesh is an Arabic term for a relatively small amount of money given to a beggar or for services rendered

And yes, they had ice tea in Egypt in the 19th century. The ice would have been brought in from the mountains as there is no refrigeration as we know it today. And if they had no ice, the tea would have been served at room temperature.

The Winter Palace Hotel was actually constructed in 1886, so I'm only pushing the date up by a little bit. It is still around, is owned by Sofitel, and is considered a 5-star hotel.

Students of Egyptology will recognize Khuenaten as an early, and erroneous, rendering of the name of Ahkenaten, the famous heretic pharaoh.

_Denkmaeler aus Aegypten und Aethiopien_ is a massive twelve volume compendia of nearly 900 plates of ancient Egyptian inscriptions, as well as accompanying commentary and descriptions. These plans, maps, and drawings of temple and tomb walls remained the chief source of information for Western scholars well into the 20th century, and are useful even today as they are often the sole record of monuments that have since been destroyed or reburied.

Nubia The land of ancient Nubia was bounded on the north by the First Cataract of the Nile River, located just south of Elephantine, and on the far south by the Sixth Cataract, located north of modern Khartum.


	7. The German

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 7  
****The German**

**-0-0-0-**

"How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them!"  
**Oscar Wilde, **_**An Ideal Husband**_

**-0-0-0-**

"Oh! That man is...is insufferable!" Elizabeth muttered under her breath as she stepped into buggy that was going to take her back to camp.

"Pardon, Sitt?" the driver said. "Did you say something?"

"No. No, I was just...just talking to myself," she said, embarrassed at being caught talking to herself. She accepted the driver's help into the cab and sat down, demurely folding her hands in her lap.

"If you say so, Sitt," the driver replied.

For the rest of the trip, Elizabeth said nothing. She barely noticed anything around her as the driver navigated the narrow streets. The trip back to the Karnak temple complex was, thankfully, uneventful—no street urchins begging for _baksheesh_, no upset cart blocking the road—and this allowed Elizabeth the opportunity to recover from her encounter with Erik Rien. She replayed the interview in her mind, trying to determine what she might have done differently that would have made the meeting go more smoothly. She was sure that he knew something about her husband's disappearance, but for some reason, was refusing to tell her. Blast the man, but he was arrogance personified!

The buildings thinned out, and soon they were riding past the ancient temples, along the avenue of sphinxes. At last, she was back at the camp. Ra'id came running up to greet her and to help her out of the buggy. She paid the driver and headed for the hut, Ra'id at her side.

"Did you see him?" he asked, concern on his face when he saw how distraught she was.

"Yes," she said, frowning slightly. "I'm sorry to say."

"Sorry, Sitt? Did the meeting go badly?"

"A more intolerable, arrogant, conceited person I have never met!" she exclaimed, wrenching off her gloves and shoving them into her reticule. What a ridiculous affectation, dressing like a Bedouin. Imagine a European gone native like that. Then she thought about his scarred right eye, and found herself wondering about what else was hidden beneath that scarf. Enough of this nonsense. She forced herself to stop thinking about Rien. She looked inside her reticule again, intending to put the painting away, and was horrified when she realized that she'd left it back at the man's house. Could anything else go wrong?

"Has there been any word from Mr. Brackenstall while I was out?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"No, Sitt."

"Very well, then. I need to freshen up. I shall rejoin you later."

Elizabeth entered the hut and shut the door behind her before leaning her back against the wall and closing her eyes. She would not let the men see her acting this way, giving in to womanly weakness. She would not let them see the tears that were welling up.

"Blast that man!" she said, choking back a sob, not knowing who she was angriest with the most at the moment—her husband, or Erik Rien.

-0-0-0-

Erik sat on an empty crate, examining a collection of funerary statues he'd recently purchased. For two days now, he had been trying to sort and catalogue them, but circumstances were not cooperating. It seemed that every time he wanted to work on unpacking, something—or someone—interrupted him. Better work quickly, before the next interruption came.

He glanced across the room at the shelf on which sat the wall painting fragment that Mrs. Brackenstall forgot to take with her when she left in such a lather the other day. He knew he should have immediately arranged to have it returned to her, but kept stalling for reasons he could not quite fathom. Certainly, she had been fairly acerbic during her visit, but she was understandably upset about her husband. Isn't that how a wife was supposed to behave in such circumstances—worried and concerned? Even if that husband was not the pick of the lot?

It was not as if she had been asking that Erik be her friend...or her Angel. Now, that was a stupid notion! Who did he think she was, his new Christine? Besides, she may not have been a beauty but she did have a certain appeal. After Christine's meekness, it was almost refreshing to talk to a woman with a little fire. But best not to think along those lines.

He wanted to laugh at himself for harboring such foolish thoughts. Five years had passed since the events at the Opera Populaire, and he was still defensive around women in general, and, it turned out, Elizabeth Brackenstall in particular. What a fool he was being! There was no need for such idiocy. She was a married woman who, in spite of the man's shortcomings, was obviously in love with her husband, and he had been a perfect boor. He had not helped matters at all and had been deliberately rude to her for no good reason.

Besides, Erik told himself, women—any women—were out of the picture. There was no chance for any sort of romantic intrigue, and most certainly not with Elizabeth Brackenstall. Even if he had been interested in her. And he hadn't been interested. Christine had been his first and last hope, and he'd learned his lesson.

It was still curious, though, that she had not called or sent word about the painting.

A'aqil opened the door to the storage room and announced, "The German is here to see you, Master."

Erik gave silent thanks for A'aqil's interruption. His thoughts had been definitely going in the wrong direction. He set the statue aside. "Riemenschneider? Here?"

"Yes, Master. He says it is merely a social call." A'aqil's expression showed that he didn't believe this for one minute.

Erik frowned. "Nothing Riemenschneider does is 'merely social'."

"I agree, Master" A'aqil said with a thoughtful nod of the head. "Shall I remain nearby?"

"Of course. I don't trust the German any further than I can throw him. Where is he now?"

"In the courtyard."

"What? Did you leave him alone with Safa?"

"Of course not, Master. We both know what a lecher Herr Riemenschneider is. I told Safa to stay in her room."

"And did she?"

"No. She, too, remembers Herr Riemenschneider. She says she isn't afraid of him."

The last comment evinced a laugh from the men, both of whom were aware of how spirited Safa could be if crossed.

"Very well," Erik said, rising from his chair. "Let us beard the lion."

-0-0-0-

Erik entered the courtyard, and found Earhart Riemenschneider sitting in the chair Elizabeth Brackenstall sat in the previous day. Superficially, the two of them were civil, even cordial, to one another; however, neither trusted the other. Erik had come to know many of the legitimate antiquities dealers in Luxor, and most of the unscrupulous ones as well. In his business, it paid to know them all. Riemenschneider belonged in the second group, and was the most successful of the lot. He was also the most unprincipled and, if crossed, could be extremely dangerous.

He was a tall man, as tall as Erik, with a high forehead and a strikingly handsome face. He was clean-shaven except for a pencil-thin mustache, and more than once Erik found himself thinking that if Lucifer ever walked the planet, he would look like Earhart Riemenschneider. The German projected the epitome of urbane civility, and to friend and enemy alike, was smooth and charming. "The Elegant Slime" is how many referred to Riemenschneider, but that label did not bother him. In fact, he reveled in it.

"Good afternoon, Herr Riemenschneider," Erik said.

The German rose and acknowledged Erik with a crisp bow of his head. "Yes, it is a good afternoon, is it not?" he replied with the slightest of accents.

"It's too hot to stand here talking. Shall we sit?"

Riemenschneider smiled, and Erik couldn't help but think of a snake lurking in the grass. "But of course," the German replied, as if the two of them were best of friends. "It is rather warm, don't you think? Perhaps your delightful servant girl would bring us something to...refresh us?"

As if on cue, Safa entered the room, asking if either of the gentlemen would like some food and drink. When she returned with the tray carrying the refreshments, Riemenschneider flirted outrageously with her.

Riemenschneider reached over and captured one of her hands with his own. "You have such lovely hands," he purred, stroking her hand and arm with his fingers. "Such delicate hands should not be confined to menial labor." He looked up at her face. "I can think of many other uses for hands as soft and as strong as yours..."

The look on the girl's face let it be known in no uncertain terms that she did not appreciate his attentions. He tried to pull her closer, chuckling as she struggled briefly against him before he let her go with a laugh, as though he meant to be playful and harmless, but he continued leering at her.

Erik started to rise from his chair, but Safa silently signaled that it was not necessary, that she could take care of herself. Erik gave an almost imperceptible nod, letting her know he understood. Besides, if for any reason she or Erik could not handle things, there was always her brother, who would take matters into his own hands if need be.

Ignoring Riemenschneider's lascivious gaze, Safa continued serving the drinks, handing the first of the iced teas to Erik, and then deliberately pouring the German's in his lap.

"Oh. I am so sorry, sir," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. "I seem to have spilled your drink. How clumsy of me." She placed the empty glass on the tray and stared at Riemenschneider, daring him to do reply.

The German, rather than getting angry, laughed. "I like you, Safa!" he declared as if this had all been a game. "Yes, I like a girl with spirit, and you are most correct. I behaved like a perfect lout. I am certain I deserved this. Will you forgive me?"

If Erik hadn't known Riemenschneider better, he might almost have believed the German was sincere. Almost...but not quite.

"Besides, there was no harm done," Riemenschneider added. "In this heat, they will dry quickly enough," he said, pointing to his wet trousers.

Safa glared at him. "I am not sure your apology is sincere, but I will accept it nonetheless and bring you another drink," she said, and left the room.

"I like her, Rien! Would you consider selling her to me?"

Erik's eyes flashed with anger, but his voice was calm. "I'm not in the business of buying and selling human beings."

Riemenschneider looked surprised. "Why ever not? It is quite a lucrative commerce. Oh, don't look at me like that. We're both adults. We both have been around the block more than once and know how the world really operates."

"Perhaps, but my answer's still no."

"Oh, very well. Can't blame a man for trying." He pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket, placed one in an ivory holder, and lit it. He offered one to Erik, who declined.

"They're bad for the voice," Erik said.

"You can't fool me. You just don't want to expose your pretty face."

Before Erik could reply, Safa returned with fresh drinks, placed them on the table, and left. The two men sat quietly, Erik sipping his iced tea while the German blew rings in the air.

"You know, I've always been curious," said Riemenschneider. "Whatever brought you to Luxor in the first place?"

"My health," said Erik. "I came to Luxor for the curative waters."

"There are no spas here. The only water is the Nile."

Erik shrugged. "I was misinformed."

Riemenschneider leaned forward in a conspiratorial posture. "Tell me the truth. Why did you come to this godforsaken place? Did you abscond with the church funds? Run off with a nobleman's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me."

"I burned down an opera house and kidnapped the soprano from the stage."

The German burst out laughing. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"Couldn't stand the music."

"Critics! You're all alike!" Riemenschneider took another drag on his cigarette. "You're not going to tell me the truth, are you? No? Serves me right for asking such personal questions."

"Yes, it does."

Riemenschneider leaned back in his chair and slowly exhaled. "You despise me, don't you?"

"If I gave you any thought, I probably would. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Surely, it's not because you enjoy my company."

Riemenschneider laughed again. "Hardly! A scorpion's got a better disposition; however, I have a certain admiration for you."

"Oh?"

"It's true. You have always dealt honestly with me. That is why I am cautioning you not to get involved with anything to do with Brackenstall. Yes, I know Mrs. Brackenstall came to see you yesterday."

"Are you laying claim to her, then?"

"Me? Never! I don't care for that English woman. She's too cold, too sharp-tongued. This matter has to do with the woman's husband, Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall. Do you know anything about the man?"

"Never heard of him until yesterday," Erik said, lying.

"That's not what I heard."

Erik cocked an eyebrow.

"I was told that Mr. Brackenstall called upon you last week," the German went on.

"Did this person tell you why?"

"Of course, not, Rien! What do you think, that I have spies in your household?"

Erik nodded and graciously accepted Riemenschneider's remark with a smile, even though the German couldn't see it under the scarf. Since his household consisted only of himself, A'aqil and Safa, he knew there were no spies within his walls. Any other servants—gardener, stable boy, and so forth—were day workers who were seldom admitted inside the house and therefore would have had no occasion to overhear anything said between himself and Brackenstall.

"What do you know about him?" Erik asked.

"Mister Leonidas is your typical carefree English aristocrat. He was raised with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, and has never had to work a day in his life. He has an allowance that would keep you and me living in a style to which we could easily become accustomed, but which for him is barely enough. He is of modest intelligence, and depends upon his charm and good looks to get him by."

"Much like you?"

"Almost, but not quite. You see, not only do I have charm and good looks, but intelligence, too. Now, let me see...where was I?"

"You were telling me about Brackenstall and his wife."

"Ah, yes. Well, Brackenstall fancies himself a mover and a shaker in society circles, but the wife is the brains of the two," Riemenschneider explained. "Did you know she attended university? I remember hearing that she applied to Oxford. They allowed her to attend lectures and the like, but apparently wouldn't award her with a degree."

"Are you sure? I thought women were admitted and charged tuition."

"I'm only repeating what I've heard. Who knows? Probably afraid she'd shame her male counterparts. Her father is considered an expert in Egyptology. Studied many years with Karl Richard Lepsius—he's German, you know—for a number of years. Old Professor Cutteridge often took his little girl on expeditions with him, and instilled in her the love of this land, its history and its culture. It was here, in Egypt, that she and Brackenstall met."

"Impressive. So, she and her husband share a common interest."

"It's more than that. Leo is the youngest son of some English Lord-something-or-other Brackenstall. I suspect they have a lineage that goes back to the Norman conquest."

"That would make him a viscount," Erik groaned. Another one? Hadn't he had enough younger sons of nobility with de Chagny?

"Yes, I supposed that's the correct title. I'm sure they are quite happy. After all, the lady surely doesn't wish to give up a chance at rubbing elbows with high society, or on the possibility of one day being Lady Brackenstall—when they're not in Egypt, that is. Or maybe she stays with the young whelp because of Papa's money. But no matter. The simple fact is that Brackenstall's gotten himself in over his head with some harebrained scheme."

"You are quite mercenary in your attitude, Earhart."

"Naturally. It is the only way to be successful in life. But why are you asking all these questions about Brackenstall. Didn't he explain his situation when he called upon you?"

"Humor me and pretend he didn't," said Erik.

Riemenschneider stubbed out the butt of the spent cigarette and prepared another. "I don't have the exact details, but from what I've heard through the grapevine, it has to do with the usual—tomb robbing, buried caches of treasure, something like that. Rumors suggest it is very much along the lines of the royal tomb cache found at Qurnah a few years back. You remember the story, don't you, about how a goat belonging to Ahmed el-Rassul strayed from the herd on the cliffs near Deir el-Bahri. The whole thing started back in the early '70s. This Ahmed, when he went to look for his goat, found that it had fallen down one of the many shafts that honeycomb the nearby cliffs. Can you imagine how a poor _fellah_ like Ahmed must have felt when he got to the bottom of the shaft and found not just his goat, but a collection of royal funerary objects?"

"According to the newspaper accounts I read, there were ancient coffins stretching as far as he could see," said Erik, "and that many of them bore the _uraeus_, the royal cobra."

"And there weren't just coffins and mummies. There were any number of grave goods including ushabtis and canopic jars. Ahmed and his brothers and their families lived quite handsomely for quite a few years, but, as usual, greed gave them away." Riemenschneider blew another smoke ring and watched it float away.

"Yes," said Erik. "It was in all the Luxor papers when I came here in '81. The head of the antiquities department, Gaston Maspero, learned about these articles being sold on the black market and arrested the el-Russul brothers. He used torture to force a confession from them and moved the cache to Cairo—for safe keeping."

"Yes, leave it to a Frenchman to spoil all the fun."

"And this is what you think Leonidas Brackenstall has gotten himself involved in? Another royal cache? You think he's bright enough to carry off a scheme like this, with the antiquities department on the alert for just such mischief?"

"It's possible," said Riemenschneider. "Greed and _baksheesh_ have just as much influence among the Europeans who head the antiquities department as they do on the ordinary Egyptian farmer, and the people Brackenstall's involved with are dangerous. Very dangerous. Besides, Maspero's leaving soon. In the interim, anything can happen."

"Any names?"

The German shook his head slowly. "No names, only whispers. As surprising as this may sound, even I do not know everything. There is talk of a new player in town. A friend of a friend told me he came down from Cairo. Whoever he is, he is very secretive and mysterious—even more secretive than you, my friend."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "We're not friends, but thank you for your concern just the same."

"You're going to ignore my advice?"

"Not at all," said Erik with sham sincerity. "I know that you have only my best interests at heart. What I plan on doing is assess the situation for myself and make my own decision. As you said earlier, we're both adults. We both have been around the block more than once and know how the world really operates."

The German grinned. "You're ignoring my advice."

Erik nodded.

"Ah well," Riemenschneider said, making a gesture of washing his hands of the affair. "I tried."

-0-0-0-

Notes:

Karl Richard Lepsius was one of the founding father's of Egyptology, and studied under Champolion himself.

Deir el-Bahri is the site of the famous temple of Hatshepsut.

The uraeus is the stylized, upright form of an Egyptian cobra used as a symbol of sovereignty, royalty, deity, and divine authority in ancient Egypt.

Ushabtis are funerary figurines were placed in tombs among the grave goods and were intended to act as substitutes for the deceased, should he be called upon to do manual labor in the afterlife.

Canopic jars were used by ancient Egyptians to store various internal organs removed during the process of mummification.

The story about the el-Russul brothers is true. Gaston Maspero was real, too!


	8. Unwanted Visitors

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Quick! How many of you when you read chapter 7 caught all the references to Casablanca? And for those of you who may have been wondering, the character of Earhart Reimenschneider is inspired in part by my all-time favorite actor, the late Conrad Veidt. As for the name? I picked Earhart because it's close to the last name of my favorite NASCAR drivers (Dale Earnhardt -- Junior and Senior). The name Reimenschneider was "borrowed" from a Renaissance German sculptor, Tilman Reimenschneider, whose beautiful Holy Blood altar I was able to see years ago when I visited Rothenburg ob der Tauber._

**Chapter 8  
****Unwanted Visitors**

Two more days passed, and still there was no word from Leo.

Elizabeth looked at the all-but-deserted camp where activity had come to a standstill. With her husband absent, she made the decision to cut back on work at what was, as she had predicted, an unproductive site. Funds for expeditions did not grow on trees, and there was no sense in throwing good money after bad, to continue funding a project that would yield no major finds, nothing of importance. It was better to pay off the workers and let them go find other employment.

Only Ra'id remained even though she had suggested that he, too, return home. There was nothing going in camp, she had explained, and she did not have the resources to continue paying him. Ra'id was loyal, however. He had not only worked for the Brackenstalls for five seasons, but had worked for her father as well. He assured Prof. Cutteridge's daughter that he would stay on, if only to ensure that no one caused her trouble while her husband was away.

"It is the least I can do for my old friend," he said.

Inactivity wore on Elizabeth's already frayed nerves. Even though there had been no spectacular finds, the site had yielded numerous pieces of everyday ancient Egyptian life, pieces of pottery and ceramic. Now that she had time on her hands, what better way was there to while away the hours than by sorting and cataloguing these artifacts? With Ra'id's help, they constructed a large makeshift table out of chairs and planks of wood.

Before her, she spread out an assortment of shards as well as small figurines, amulets, and scarabs, sorting them according to their shape, color and design. She picked up one piece that caught her eye, a curious looking fish-shaped bottle in red pottery, and remembered the relic she'd left behind at Monsieur Rien's house.

Blast the man, why hadn't he sent her a message about the painting? Better still, why hadn't he simply returned the fragment? If he did not wish to speak to her face to face, he could have had it delivered to the camp. It was not as if she were in hiding!

"Perhaps you should call upon Mr. Rien again?" Ra'id asked.

Elizabeth looked up with a start to find her foreman standing silently beside her. It was as if he could read her mind.

"Why should I call on Mr. Rien?" she fumed.

"Perhaps the man has discovered more information regarding the painting you showed him the other day?" the older man offered.

"No, there's no reason for me to believe that Mr. Rien is the least bit interested in anything concerning the painting…or my husband," she said. Why was it that, no matter how hard she tried to put the man out of her mind, everything kept returning back to Erik Rien? Why did everyone think he was such an expert? It was obvious that he was just another person who made a living by fleecing the gullible. "Besides, he's rude and uncouth. Oh, and that business of keeping his face covered is nothing more than a cheap trick to make himself out to be more mysterious than he really is."

"If you say so, Sitt."

Ra'id politely waited a few moments to see if Elizabeth were going to say something else. When she did not, he walked off, not wishing to be around when she was in such a noticeably foul mood.

Elizabeth spent the better part of an hour sorting and cataloguing, but at last gave up. Her mind was elsewhere, unable to concentrate on the task at hand. Discouraged, she left the classification project for another time. She rose from her chair and returned to the hut, wandering about absentmindedly, picking things up – dirty clothes, papers and books lying about – as she attempted to formulate a plan. A plan for what? What could she possibly do? Surely, there was a clue she had missed that would help her learn what had happened to Leo.

She grabbed a broom and went once more to her husband's room and set about tidying it up for the umpteenth time. As she swept the floor, she struck something under the cot. Down on her hands and knees, she reached under the cot and pulled out a leather-bound book. It was Leo's journal, the one in which he had been keeping a daily record of transactions involving the expedition.

She eagerly thumbed through the pages. This could be that elusive clue she had been looking for! She examined the entries written in Leo's neat script. They looked innocent enough, being mostly lists of expenditures for the expedition, but she kept looking. She was most interested in anything written on the days immediately prior to his disappearance, and at last came upon an entry of note. It was a cryptic reference to what could have been a meeting, and included a date, a time, and a place.

_December the 8__th__ – 3 o'clock – the great hypostyle of the temple of Karnak.  
__Undiscovered cache near Tell el-Amarna – Tut-Ankh-Aten_

She looked up at the calendar tacked to the wall. The 8th was two weeks ago. That made today…almost Christmas! She frowned. Good thing neither of them had made any plans for the holidays! She read the journal entry again.

_Undiscovered cache…Tell el-Amarna…Tut-Ankh-Aten_

Good lord, what had Leo gotten himself into now, with this cloak and dagger intrigue? She snorted in disgust. It smelled of black market antiquities. Leo wasn't stupid, but neither did he have any judgment when it came to dealing with opportunists. There were times when he acted more like a little boy than a grown man, too excited by all that glitters to take a closer look at the men who dealt in the black market, men would just as soon cut a person's throat as shake his hand. Repeatedly she had warned him to avoid such shady characters, but did he listen? Obviously not.

As she stood reading the entry again, the disquieting notion that foul play was involved reared its ugly head. She closed the book and put it away. It was time to go to the authorities in Luxor and report Leonidas Brackenstall as missing.

-0-0-0-

Erik looked about his shop. It was a small building, neat and orderly, and stood adjacent to his house but was not connected. There was nothing ostentatious about the shop. The antiques he sold were quality pieces. Although the provenance of the occasional piece was sometimes questionable, most of his customers did not care. All they wanted was an authentic souvenir from their trip to Egypt. Though he had intimated to Mrs. Brackenstall that he had from time to time sold "genuine reproductions," Erik seldom engaged in fraud. He wasn't a saint, but neither did he go out of his way to be a sinner. Those replicas were kept aside for deserving customers – the arrogant and the obnoxious.

He was proud of his shop. It gave him a sense of accomplishment and was an enterprise he had established on his own, literally building it up from nothing. Since arriving in Egypt, he had taken Mme Giry's suggestion to heart. He had reinvented himself, made a new, and successful, life.

The Phantom of the Opera was long gone, and though it had been a difficult process, he had come to terms with his disfigurement, and accepted that he would never enjoy the kind of normal life that other men took for granted. He accepted that he would never be one who mixed easily in society, but he no longer holed himself up and hid from the world, either. He took solace from the acceptance of A'aqil and Safa, who he had come to look upon as family.

Long ago, Erik had given up telling A'aqil and Safa not to call him Master. He had insisted that he was nobody's master, that they were his employees…and his friends, not his slaves. A'aqil and his sister, on their part, had just as stubbornly continued to call him Master. It was a sign of their great respect for him, they said.

"Besides," A'aqil had said one day, "let us be realistic. Do you truly think other Europeans would look kindly upon your treating poor miserable Nubians as your brother and sister?"

Erik relented slightly. "I don't give a damn what other Europeans think of me, but poor you are not," he said with a glint of humor in his eyes. "I don't even want to think about how much you've stolen from me over the years."

"Not much, Master, only enough so that when the time comes, I can provide Safa a proper wedding. That is, when she decides to marry."

"If Safa needs a proper wedding," Erik replied, "all you need to do is tell me. I'll see that she is provided with one that will guarantee her a good match and have the folks of Luxor celebrating for days. It's the least I can do after all you've put up with these past years."

A'aqil made a face. "But, where would the fun in that be?"

And so the game had continued.

-0-0-0-

Erik roused himself from his musings and turned as he heard A'aqil enter the room. "Good morning, my friend," he said, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment of the other man.

"Good morning, Master. I have wonderful news. My friend, Abdullah, has sent word that he has some new artifacts you might be interested in. He is in the bazaar of the antique sellers." He gave Erik the address.

"_New_ artifacts?" asked Erik. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"

A'aqil chuckled. "I'm not sure what morons have to do with this, but you know what I mean, Master. I mean new artifacts as in newly discovered."

Erik chuckled. "Very good. I have someone else to see today as well. You will mind the store for me while I'm gone?"

"Don't I always?" A'aqil said, then his brows furrowed. "You're not going to be seeing the German, are you?"

"Riemenschneider sent me a note that he has some papyri he's willing to sell. I'm going to check out the quality and the asking price. He writes that it is an almost completely intact version of the ancient _Book of the Dead_."

"Are you sure it is wise to deal with the German?"

"Just remember what the famous Chinese general & military strategist Sun-tzu said: 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'"

A'aqil shook his head and muttered. "Whoever this Chinese general is, he cannot be _that_ famous. _I_ never heard of him." To Erik, he said, "Shall I have that wretched excuse of a stable boy saddle up your horse?"

"Wretched? What's he done now?"

"Oh…nothing. And I truly mean nothing, as in, he does not do all the tasks assigned him. He is lazy."

"He's just a boy."

"He is undependable."

"He has a sick mother and often has to leave to take care of her."

"Master, if you continue to make excuses for him, he will never amount to anything."

"Sounds rather like someone else I know."

A'aqil rolled his eyes. "I have no idea who you are talking about."

"Just get my horse saddled. The stallion could use a good workout."

"Yes, Master."

-0-0-0-

The outing was a partial success. Abdullah did indeed have some interesting pieces, including an exquisite blue-green glazed faience scarab, its underside inscribed with hieroglyphics that translated roughly as "the god Amun-Re endures in peace." Erik bought it and several other pieces and arranged to have them delivered to the shop later that week.

Riemenschneider's _Book of the Dead,_ however, turned out to be a different matter altogether – a counterfeit bit of paper of mediocre quality.

"Earhart, how could you fall for something like this?" Erik waved the papyrus in the air. "This isn't even a good fake!"

The German shrugged his shoulders and gave Erik a hangdog look. "I knew you wouldn't come by for a purely social call, so…I created a reason. My apologies." Riemenschneider directed them to a couple of comfortable chairs in his study and instructed his servant to bring them drinks. "Something to quench the parched throat?" he suggested, gesturing to the crystal decanter filled with golden liquid.

"No, thank you. Iced tea will be fine," Erik replied. "I like to keep a clear head when we're together."

Earhart laughed. "That's what I like about you, Rien – your sense of humor." The German poured himself a whiskey, while Erik discretely sipped on his tea, taking care not to expose his face.

"May we forego the pleasantries?" Erik said impatiently. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Brackenstall."

"I don't know…"

"Yes. Yes, you know nothing, but as you put it the other day, humor me. You don't have to admit a thing. For the sake of this conversation, we shall pretend you are at least acquainted with Mr. Leo." He paused. "What? No protestations?"

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "You told me not to say anything."

The German grinned and looked heavenward. "If only I had known it would be this easy! Very well. The point of all this is – I know where Brackenstall is."

"You do? Where?"

"Amarna. He is supposedly searching for a royal tomb, one belonging to some obscure Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh by the name of Tut-Ankh-Aten, or something like that. Never heard of him myself."

Erik was suspicious. It wasn't like the German to offer information without expecting something in return. "Who told you?"

Riemenschneider made a face of pure innocence. "A little birdie? Does it really matter?"

"It might. Knowing your source would give me an idea as to how reliable this information is." It fit together though, he thought. The wall painting fragment was in the Amarna style.

The German pulled out his cigarette case and, inserting one of them into an ivory holder, lit it and began to smoke. "Names are terribly difficult to verify in this business. Shall we simply say that it was one of my contacts in the market?"

"You mean the _black_ market."

"Black, white – what's the difference? Apparently Mr. Leo came across a fragment of a wall painting from one of the Amarna tombs. Not sure of the details but I heard he was told that this morsel of artwork came from Pharaoh Tut-Ankh-Aten's tomb. Do you know anything about this painting? No, I didn't think so."

Erik mulled over this latest bit of news. There was nothing here he hadn't already considered himself, but it was interesting to hear it come from Riemenschneider. "Is there more?"

Riemenschneider barked out a laugh. "What? This isn't enough for you?"

"So, you lured me to your house to tell me about a man I have absolutely no interest in?" Erik waited for the German's response. No need to reveal that he was much more interested in this sordid-sounding affair than he had been letting on.

Riemenschneider signed resignedly. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor. Ah well…"

Erik rose from his chair, their conversation concluded. He picked up the papyrus and tossed it over to the German. "If I were you, I would hire myself a better copyist," he said. "A five-year-old could do a better job."

"Before you go," Riemenschneider said, "allow me to make amends for your wasted trip." He handed Erik a small box. Inside was a brightly colored _ushabti_, about 30 centimeters in length.

"It _appears_ to be authentic," Erik said suspiciously, inspecting the statue.

"But of course! Genuine Twelfth Dynasty."

Erik hesitated before saying, "Thank you." He stood looking at the figurine, wondering what the German would expect in return for all of this.

"You are quite welcome, my friend," said Riemenschneider.

Erik let out an ungentlemanly snort. Why was it he could not get A'aqil to stop calling him Master, while the German insisted on calling him his friend?

-0-0-0-

"Oh, Master Erik! Thank Allah you have returned!"

Erik rode up to the shop and was surprised to see Safa running out to him in obvious distress. He quickly dismounted and tethered the horse.

"What's wrong?"

The young girl grabbed him by the arm and all but dragged him into the shop. "It was awful!" she said, speaking rapidly between gulps of breath. "A'aqil, he shoved me in the closet and wouldn't let me out…and all I could hear were the men tearing the shop apart. And I couldn't get out because he locked the door. They were smashing things. Said it was for my own good…and I couldn't help him…and the other men…"

Erik took hold of her arms and tried to force her to stop, but continued propelling the two of them into the shop. Inside, he was shocked to see the shambles that awaited him. Display cabinets were smashed, pieces of wood, glass, and antiques were scattered about on the floor, crushed and broken.

"Slow down and tell me what happened, Safa."

"No, I will tell you all later. First, we must help my brother."

Erik looked around. A'aqil was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's your brother?" he said, fear gripping his heart as he saw the mess inside the shop. If something had happened to A'aqil…

"Over here," the young girl said, pointing to the back corner, behind one of the broken display cases. There was A'aqil, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and moaning softly. Blood covered his face, flowing from a gash on his forehead.

Safa was shivering with outrage and fear. "They hurt my brother," she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

"It will be all right. Go back to the house. Bring a basin of water, some towels and some linen for bandages." He saw her staring at all the blood. "Go, now," he urged gently. "It's superficial. Head wounds always bleed profusely."

At last, she gathered her wits about her and ran to the house. Erik knelt by A'aqil's side. He hoped that what he said was true, that the Nubian was not badly hurt.

"Well, my friend," Erik said softly, relieved to see that A'aqil was at least conscious, "what did you do this time?"

In spite of his injuries, the black man managed to crack a smile. "Nothing that I know of," he answered, putting a hand to his head.

"Here, take this." Erik handed him a handkerchief. "I sent Safa to bring some towels and bandages."

A'aqil tried to nod, but his head hurt too much. "I think all this uproar scared her," he managed to say, holding the blood-soaked linen to his head.

"I think you scared both of us. Can you tell me who did this?"

A'aqil shook his head gingerly. "No. Never saw them before. Two men, they came in, literally bursting through the door."

Erik turned and for the first time noticed that the front door was askew.

A'aqil continued. "They shouted, 'Where's Rien?' I told them you were out. I knew they meant trouble. Safa had come in the back way with my lunch. I didn't want them to hurt her, so I grabbed her and locked her in the closet. I tried to fight them…" His voice trailed off.

"Everything is all right, A'aqil. The rest is just broken glass and pottery. You can tell me the rest later. For now, Safa's here. We're going to get you cleaned up and then help you to your bed."

The two of them quickly cleaned the wound and bound it with linen strips. A quick inspection showed that while he bore some bruises from the ordeal, A'aqil suffered no serious injuries. With Safa on one side and Erik on the other, they helped A'aqil to his feet and back to the house, where they put him to bed.

"Stay with your brother," Erik instructed Safa, and then returned to the shop. He looked around, trying to determine what, if anything, was missing. The floor was littered with broken bits of glass, wood, broken statuary and pottery, but as best he could tell, it appeared as though nothing was taken. If this wasn't a robbery, then what was it? He looked around the room and for the first time noticed a piece of paper tacked to the wall. He pulled it down and stared at the childish script.

_Brackenstall's business does not concern you. __Do not interfere in matters that are not yours_.

Erik stuffed the paper into his pocket. He quickly cleaned up the worst of the debris and fixed the hinge on the door as best he could. Finding a padlock in the storeroom, he secured the store and put out the "Closed" sign. Then it was back to the storeroom.

He went immediately to the shelf where the painting was being kept and found it still there. Either the intruders had not wanted it, or did not find it. Either way, this was no longer a safe place to keep it. He wrapped the precious fragment in cloth and placed it in a satchel. With satchel in hand, he returned to the house to check on A'aqil, reassured to find him resting with Safa sitting at his side.

"Do we need to send for a doctor?" Erik asked.

"No, my brother has a strong head," Safa said, tears threatening to break forth as she held A'aqil's hands in hers.

"You mean a thick skull, don't you?" Erik said, coaxing a smile from the girl. A'aqil managed a grimace. "If everything is all right here, I'll be going out. I'll talk to the rest of the staff and instruct them keep an eye on things. If you need anything, tell one of them."

Outside, Erik gave orders to the gardener and the stable boy, neither of whom had witnessed the attack and both wondering what all the commotion had been about. Finding the horse where he'd left it, Erik headed into town. First, he would visit the Luxor police station and file a report.

And then, he would pay a visit to Elizabeth Brackenstall. He was going to get to the bottom of all of this!

-0-0-0-


	9. Ruffled Feathers

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 9  
****Ruffled Feathers**

"You say your husband is missing?" the oily man sitting across from Elizabeth asked, his voice laced with boredom.

Concerned that she had allowed too much time to elapse before doing something, Elizabeth had come to the police station in Luxor to report her husband as missing. Even though it was winter, the coolest time of the year in Egypt, the air inside the dingy room was oppressive and reeked of body odor, spicy food, and something else quite unpleasant.

She glanced around the room, trying to ascertain the source of the offensive smell. Perhaps it was the drunken man snoring in the corner, or the remains of somebody's meal sitting on another desk. Whatever it was, the stink was doing nothing to improve her attitude. Just sitting in the room made her feel dirty. The heat was making her drowsy, and she stifled a yawn. It was all she could do to force herself not to fidget with her gloves.

The official sitting across from her was not helping matters, either. It was obvious that the slightly balding, middle-aged man was little more than an insignificant bureaucrat with an overblown opinion of himself. From his manner, it was evident that his mind was not on taking her report. No doubt, he wished to be somewhere else.

"Yes," she said, forcing her voice to remain even. No sense in antagonizing the man any more than necessary, but he was doing his best to annoy her. "As I've already explained, Mr. Brackenstall has been missing for the better part of two weeks."

The police officer made some notations on his pad of paper, then turned his attention back to her. "Is it possible that he is not actually missing, but has merely absented himself?"

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed and she felt her face grow hot with anger. "Exactly what are you suggesting, sir? That my husband has deliberately abandoned me? That he has taken up with another woman?"

"Of course not, Madam," the man said, attempting to smooth the feathers he'd just ruffled. "My apologies if I gave you that impression," he added, failing dismally in his attempt to flash an ingratiating smile her way. "Now then, shall we start once more at the beginning? Good. When was the last time you saw your husband?"

"On the 7th of this month."

The man tsked. "That long ago? Why did you not report his absence sooner?"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How many times did she have to repeat herself? "Mr. Brackenstall said he was going into the field to investigate a possible new excavation site and that he would be away for a few days." She did not mention that Leo told this to Ra'id, not her. "Normally, when he does this, he sends back word within two or three days, but there have been times when he's been gone for as long as a week."

She clutched her reticule tightly as she spoke, comforting herself that Leo's journal with its potentially damning entry was safely tucked inside. She had no intention of showing the book to the police officer, especially after his offensive insinuation. The only reason she'd brought the book with her was to prevent it from becoming misplaced.

Elizabeth Cotteridge Brackenstall was nothing if not loyal. Leo was her husband, and she would not implicate him in anything illegal. If she showed this man the journal, however, that is exactly the conclusion he would jump to. No, best to keep this piece of evidence to herself, at least for now. She looked back at the officer and saw he was frowning at her.

"You realize," he said, "that any concession would have to be granted by the Director of Antiquities?"

The more he spoke, the more the man's condescending tone of voice grated on her nerves. She glared back at him, assuming her most haughty bearing. "I am no novice when it comes to the business of archaeological digs in your country, Officer…I'm sorry; what did you say your name was?" She smiled inwardly at that last touch. Yes, put the little man in his place!

"Asmari," the police officer replied with a sneer.

"Yes, of course. How silly of me to have forgotten. As I was saying, Officer Asmari, I have been involved in archaeological fieldwork for a number of years. Before I was married, I accompanied my father on numerous digs. I am well acquainted with the proper procedures for obtaining proper permission from the Department of Antiquities, and am personally acquainted with Monsieur le directeur Auguste Mariette."

Asmari made some more marks on his pad. Elizabeth was convinced he was doing nothing more than doodling.

"Can you describe your husband for me?"

"I can do better than that." She reached inside her reticule and pulled out a recent photograph of Leo, one that had been taken earlier this season at a studio in Luxor. She gazed longingly for a few moments at the man staring back at her. She smiled wistfully when she saw the sandy brown hair that had refused to stay in place the day of the photograph, and noticed the mischievous twinkle that was always in his eyes. At heart, Leo was still little more than an eager little boy who wanted desperately to impress everyone. Perhaps that was why he had gone off in search of this secret cache, to impress his wife. She handed the photograph the Asmari.

"A handsome man," he acknowledged. "No doubt, he has turned many a female's head."

"Perhaps you should confine yourself to taking the lady's report, rather than impugning her husband's character."

Both Elizabeth and Asmari looked up, surprised to find Erik Rien standing before them both. He was dressed from head to toe in black – from his soft leather boots, to the Eastern-style baggy trousers, to his tunic, sash, outer robe and turban. The only thing to break the somber attire was a gold pendant around his neck – a figure of Ra-Harakhti, an ancient Egyptian solar god, in the form of a falcon with outstretched wings.1 As always, the lower half of his face was covered.

She paused to gaze at Rien. A phrase one of her school friends had used whenever she'd see a man she found particularly attractive popped into Elizabeth's head. "He's got 'the way' about him," her friend used to say. For once, Elizabeth found that expression perfectly in keeping with the enigmatic Erik Rien. Yes, he undoubtedly had 'the way'.

The change Erik elicited in Asmari was sudden, a complete turn about from how he had been treating Elizabeth. He quickly snapped to attention, and was most deferential. "Monsieur Rien," he said with a grin, "what a pleasure to see you." He held out his hand.

Erik made no move to take it. "I highly doubt that, Asmari." Even Elizabeth could see the scowl on Rien's face.

"How may I assist you?" Asmari said, by now completely ignoring Elizabeth.

Erik nodded his head in her direction. "Take the lady's report. Then, you may take mine."

A worried expression appeared on the policeman's face. "Is there something wrong?"

Asmari, she noticed with pleasure, did not appear in any kind of mood to give Monsieur Rien any nonsense. In fact, he looked to be squirming. Apparently, these two had met before.

"Why else would I come to a police station?" Erik said patiently, as if addressing a half-wit. "There was an attempted burglary. My shop was broken into. Now, take the lady's report."

In spite of their earlier differences, Elizabeth was silently grateful for Rien's intervention. Thanks to him, the rest of her interview went smoothly. When she was finished, she offered Erik the chair she had been sitting in and turned to leave.

Erik insisted that she remain seated. "Would you mind waiting?" he asked. "I have something I wish to say to you. This shouldn't take long, and I can give Asmari whatever information he needs to know while standing."

She waited while the Frenchman gave his report, and found herself focusing on the rich timbre and almost hypnotic quality of his voice. It was captivating, how he could make the details of a crime sound almost mesmerizing. She had the silliest notion that with his voice, Rien could keep a room of people entertained for hours by doing nothing more than reading from an encyclopedia.

Once both interviews were concluded, Erik walked towards the door, Elizabeth close behind.

"I should like to thank you for your assistance back there," she said, a little reluctantly. It was awkward to be indebted to this man, but he had done her a favor. Thanking him was the least she could do.

He stopped and turned to reply. "We need to talk," he said tersely.

She felt herself bristling once again at his high-handed tone. Here she had extended an olive branch, and what did the man do? We need to talk, he said, as if he were commanding her.

"We already did that, remember? And it accomplished absolutely nothing."

Erik looked around the room of the police station, at the people – officers and civilians alike – straining an ear, trying to listen in on their conversation.

"Please, Mrs. Brackenstall, you needn't assume airs with me. And may I suggest we continue this outside?" he said, lowering his voice. "Or would you prefer for the two of us to stand here and be gawked at?"

She realized her mistake. "I see what you mean," she replied, keeping her voice low as well.

They exited the building.

Erik allowed her to lead the way, giving himself another chance to look at the lady without her knowing it. She really wasn't all that bad looking, he thought. The dress, while serviceable, was several seasons out of fashion. Then, of course, she had come to Egypt to dig, not to mingle with the upper crust of European society who came to winter here.

Without intending to, he started imagining how she would look if she were to let her hair down, perhaps adopt native clothing as he had. A jalabiya, or kaftan, would surely be more comfortable than the multiple layers of clothing European women were compelled to wear over their corsets and stays. But if she did that, he wouldn't be able to watch her bustle bob up and down as she walked, or hear the click of her heels on the sidewalk.

Stop it! Don't even think of it. She's a married woman, and even if she weren't, she's a lady. She'd never give a cur like you a second glance.

"Someplace public, yet private," Erik suggested, forcing his mind back on the matter at hand. "A place where we will not be overheard. It is not my wish to place a lady in a situation that could compromise her reputation."

Elizabeth was ready to snap back with a smart retort, but looked at what she could see of his face and saw that he was entirely sincere. "There's a park nearby," she said, pointing to an oasis of greenery across the street, near the riverbank. "We can talk there."

-0-0-0-

They found a park bench near a stand of palm trees that provided shade from the noonday sun. Nearby, there was a fountain, and around the fountain were rambling roses. It was a perfect place for the two of them to talk – not too secluded, but not out in the open, either.

Elizabeth spoke first. "You mentioned in the station that your shop was broken into, and that your servants were hurt. Are they all right?"

"Yes. A'aqil has a cut on the head, and Safa is a bit shaken up, but they'll both be fine. Thank you for asking. They are the closest thing to family I've ever had. I would hate for either of them to come to harm because of me."

Elizabeth found herself softening towards this man as she listened to him speak about his servants with such heartfelt emotion. Perhaps he wasn't so bad after all. That he could feel this way about his servants showed that there must be some good qualities lurking around. "You mentioned inside the station that we needed to talk. What is it you wished to speak to me about?"

Erik pulled the satchel out from under his robe. "I would like to return this." He opened the satchel and took out something wrapped in linen and handed it to her. She unwrapped it and saw that it was the painting.

"It was terribly rude of me to keep it these past days," he said. "You may take it back in this." He handed her the bag, and remained silent for several moments. "I also wanted to tell you that you were correct."

"About what?"

"About your husband coming to see me a couple of weeks ago. At the time, I thought little of the incident. It seems he had this ludicrous scheme to uncover a hidden cache of royal mummies, or one royal mummy – that of a minor pharaoh named Tut-Ankh-Aten who is supposedly buried near el-Amarna. That piece of tomb painting was his proof of its existence."

His admission stunned her. "Why didn't you mention this the other day?"

"Because I thought this was little more than a marital squabble. You see, what he came to me for was funding for an expedition. He said he was low on ready cash, but that what we would find would more than repay us. I told him I was an antiquities dealer, and that I am not in the habit of funding expeditions, especially those based upon little more than rumor. When you showed up, I realized Brackenstall had not told you about our conversation. I was positive that it was because you and he had quarreled, and I had no wish to get myself caught in the middle."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I can see how it might have appeared that way. But what about today? Why didn't you mention this to Officer Asmari?"

"Asmari is un morceau de merde," he said contemptuously. "My apologies, Mrs. Brackenstall. I should not have spoken so crudely in front of you."

She put her hand to her mouth and forced back the laugh that was trying desperately to escape. "Yes, it is rather crude to say such a thing, but I fear you are correct."

"You know French?"

"And Arabic, and some German. It helps to be multi-lingual in my line of work. As for your description of Asmari, I have heard much worse working in the field. Even though the men try very hard to watch their language in front of me, the occasional off-color expressions slip out now and then. In the heat of the moment, you understand."

Erik nodded. "Yes, we often do things we later regret…in the heat of the moment."

"So tell me, why do you have such a low opinion of Officer Asmari?"

"Simply put, he is lazy and corrupt. The quality of his work is directly proportional to the quantity of the baksheesh one gives him."

"Then I shan't hold out much hope that he will be of much use in locating my husband." She looked around the park, the gurgling of the water and the profusion of scented flowers a balm for her inner turmoil. "You have piqued my curiosity. I understand why you said nothing to me initially, but I am wondering – why it is you did not mention your meeting with Leo to Asmari?"

"Do you wish that I had?"

"No," she admitted. "I am appreciative that you kept silent on the matter. The truth is, I fear that my husband has gotten himself into a difficult situation." She considered showing Erik the journal, but held back. She wanted to trust this man, but could not be sure. Not yet.

"I suspect Mr. Brackenstall is in even greater difficulty than you realize." He handed her the paper he'd torn down from the wall in the shop. "This was left in my shop after it had been vandalized. Obviously a warning."

She gasped when she read it. "Oh dear, what has my husband gotten himself into?" All the tranquility in the world couldn't calm her now. She knew she had to ask. "When you and Leo met, was it by chance in the Great Hypostyle?"

"No, we were in my shop. Why do you ask?"

It was time. She had to show Rien the journal. When he'd finished reading it, she asked, "Have you any suggestion as to how I should proceed?"

Erik handed the journal back to her. "I shall go to Amarna. I shall find your husband for you, and learn why I have been threatened."

"We shall go to Amarna. Leo is my husband, after all. Do you truly think I could tolerate remaining behind for who knows how many weeks, waiting to learn what has happened?"

"It will be a rough journey, not the kind of trip for a lady."

"I am accustomed to such things. I am not some naïve miss who's never been away from the comforts of home. I am an Egyptologist who has spent many seasons in the field."

Erik had to admit to himself that she had made several good points. Besides, he suspected it would be useless to argue the matter with her. If he didn't accept her as a traveling companion, she would simply follow on her own. "Very well. We shall go to Amarna."

"There is one thing I must tell you up front," she said. "I find this rather awkward to say, but the truth is that I'm not quite sure how far I can trust you."

"I understand your reluctance, Mrs. Brackenstall. All I can offer you is my word. Would that be acceptable?"

"Will you shake hands on that?" she asked, offering him hers. "A handshake is a very sacrosanct thing, Mr. Rien. Dire consequences await the man or woman who breaks his or her word after shaking hands."

Erik looked into her face and for a moment saw a sparkle of humor in her eyes. By god, this woman had pluck! He accepted her offer. "A handshake it shall be."

"Good! Now then, when shall we leave?"

"More important," Erik said, "is, how shall we travel? Amarna is nearly 250 miles north of here. Going by land would be extremely slow. If we rent a boat, we can get there in less than a week. Then, when we get close to one of the villages near Amarna, we can hire some pack animals. It will take at least a couple of days to make the arrangements for the boat, to purchase provisions and other necessities for two people."

"Three," Elizabeth said.

"Three?"

"I'm sure my man Ra'id will want to come along. He's my foreman, and worked many years for my father before working for my husband and me. He is absolutely reliable."

"Yes, of course. Ra'id must come along."

"Why are you frowning?"

"I was only thinking that A'aqil will probably want to come along as well."

"Oh dear," she said, a sudden thought striking her.

"You disapprove of A'aqil?"

"No, it's not that at all! I only meant…I realize that such things are normally not discussed in genteel company, but I believe we have passed that point. What I meant was, how much will all of this cost?"

Erik understood only too well what the problem was. "Your husband didn't leave you any money?"

"It's not that," she said. She hesitated, uncomfortable with having to admit to being dependent upon the kindness of strangers. "Oh, blast it, yes it is. What little cash we had on hand disappeared when Leo left. I assure you that I am not poor. I can secure the necessary funds, but it will take a few days."

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Brackenstall."

"But…I won't have you thinking…"

"I'm not thinking anything."

She shot him a look. "You most certainly are. You're thinking I'm a scatter-brained woman who can't even keep track of her own husband. And you'd be right." She blinked hard several times, and when that didn't work, took a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her eyes. "Annoying sand."

"Yes," he said softly, "the sand does have a way of getting in one's eyes." He waited until she had gathered her composure before continuing. "May I escort you back to your camp? It wouldn't do for a lady to walk alone on the streets of the city."

She offered Erik a weak smile. "Thank you; that is very kind of you, but I made arrangements with Ra'id to pick me up. That is he coming this way." She nodded to the Egyptian man walking towards the police station. "I told him to meet me there."

They stood up to take their leave of each other.

"I'll send word to your camp when everything is arranged, then," he said.

-0-0-0-

Once back home, the first thing Erik did was to check on his patient. Satisfied that A'aqil and Safa were all right and that there had been no further incidents, he went to the kitchen and prepared something for the three of them to eat. He found some leftover _sambousek_ – fried pastries stuffed with cheese, meats and spices – and put them on a platter along with some fresh fruit and vegetables, and brought the food to the room.

"I should be doing this, Master," said Safa, taking the tray from Erik.

"Nonsense," said Erik said to the girl. "You've got enough on your hands at the moment." He nodded towards her brother who was resting comfortably in bed, propped up with half a dozen pillows and allowing himself to be pampered. "I suspect your brother's been running you ragged," he said with a chuckle. "And you," he said to A'aqil. "Don't get too comfortable. It is only a small bump on the head. I've seen you suffer worse with far less effect over the past five years."

"Perhaps so, Master, but this time, I think I've got a concussion," A'aqil countered. "I shall probably require bed rest for several days."

"You never lost consciousness. Can't be too severe of a concussion." Erik took a seat on one of the chairs in the room, munching on one of the sambousek. "But if that is so, I suppose I'll have to make the trip alone."

"What trip?" Safa and A'aqil asked in unison.

"The trip to Amarna that I am making with Mrs. Brackenstall."

That got A'aqil's attention, and he was suddenly sitting upright, any aftereffects from a concussion completely forgotten. "I will not allow you to go anywhere with that woman…alone. I will be well enough to travel. When do we leave?"

"I thought you weren't strong enough," said Erik blithely.

"It is as you said earlier, Master," said Safa, "my brother's head is very strong."

A'aqil beamed and puffed out his chest just a little. "You said that about me, Master?"

"Yes, he did," Safa said proudly. "He said your head has the strength of a bull."

"That's not quite how I worded it," Erik chuckled.

"So tell us," asked A'aqil, "when do we leave?"

Safa sat and listened as Erik told her and A'aqil only as much as he felt was necessary about what had transpired at the police station and the conversation he'd had in the park with Mrs. Brackenstall. When he was finished, the young girl shook her head in dismay. "This is most certainly wrong! It would not be proper for a lady to be traveling alone with three men. Therefore, I shall go along, too."

"No, Safa. It's safer if you stay here," A'aqil said.

She quirked an eyebrow at her brother. "Safer for me to stay here and have those men return to the shop? Think again, big brother."

A'aqil shot Erik a look. "She has a point, Master."

Erik was forced to agree. He turned to Safa. "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, after what Mrs. Brackenstall said the other day?"

Safa jumped up, her hands on her hips, and glared first at Erik and then her brother. "You men, you are more concerned about your silly pride than the fact that she was truly concerned over how a lowly servant girl was being treated. Mrs. Brackenstall is a lady, and I will be with you two to see that she is treated accordingly."

"I wonder where she gets that stubborn streak from," Erik said to A'aqil.

A'aqil looked innocently as the ceiling. "I have no idea, Master."

Erik leaned back in his chair and started making some mental calculations regarding the number of people who were going to be part of the expedition, the provisions that would be needed, and so forth. He was beginning to wonder if it would be better to go by wagon train. "Why don't we bring the kids along, too?" he muttered under his breath.

A'aqil shot Erik a puzzled look. "Kids? What kids? You want goats? I'll bring you goats!"

Erik rolled his eyes and groaned.

-0-0-0-

**Notes:**

Ra-Harakhti (and other spellings) – a variant of Horus, the falcon-headed solar god.

In case you're thinking "kids" is a modern term for children – it isn't. The first recorded use of "kid" as slang meaning of "child" was in 1599. By the 1840s, it was well established in informal usage.


	10. The Eye of Horus

Treasures of Egypt  
**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

Chapter 10  
The _Eye of Horus_

The Nile was Egypt's life's blood, providing both transportation and sustenance, and along its banks were the docks of Luxor, where could be found vessels of every kind – small, dingy workboats and brightly painted pleasure crafts; smelly fishing boats, paddlewheeled cruise boats for the ordinary tourist and private luxury yachts for the wealthy ones. There were small, one-masted falukas and larger, two-masted dahabeeyahs, both perfect for sailing. There were rowboats, sailboats and steamboats. And the smell? It was the same smell found around waterfronts the world over, one that Erik remembered well from his summer on the canal – a combination of dankness, mud, rotting vegetation, fish and fuel. Overhead, gulls circled, piercing the air with squawks and screams.

"She's called the Eye of Horus, and is an excellent choice, Monsieur Rien," Reïs Hassan said as he proudly showed off his vessel. Hassan was a tall, thin man with dark skin and a clean-shaven face. He was dressed in the traditional white galabeya, or tunic, and cotton skullcap. Erik had done business with Hassan in the past, and knew the captain to be a man of honesty and integrity, and his boat more than adequate for their needs.

The two men continued their walk along the wooden pier to where the Eye of Horus was moored. Hassan's boat was a dahabeeyah, a flat-bottomed, shallow-draft vessel of the kind that often took sightseers on leisurely trips up and down the Nile. There was nothing stylish about the dahabeeyahs; in fact, they resembled clunky barges with box-like superstructures setting on the aft portion of the decks. Most were powered either by sail or by muscle. Two masts with triangular sails – a large one near the prow, and a smaller one back by the stern for when the wind cooperated – could catch the slightest of breezes, and there were oars for rowing when they didn't. Some of the newer ones were making use of steam power, but Hassan preferred the old ways.

"She is 113 feet from stem to stern, and is 18 feet across the beam," the captain said, pointing to the freshly lacquered boat with a wadjet – the protective "eye of Horus" – painted on the prow. "How many did you say will be traveling?"

"I believe the number is now up to five – myself, a lady, and three servants," said Erik.

"Then she," Hassan exclaimed, referring to the boat, "will be perfect! See, we have five cabins and can accommodate up to ten passengers." They stepped on board and Hassan gave Erik a tour of the passenger quarters. "The two larger cabins have a private bath, while the three smaller ones share a single bath."

Erik approved. True, he could have chosen a smaller and less expensive vessel, but he had opted for some comfort for the passengers instead.

This way, there will be no need to share quarters, he thought with a sense of relief. Even though he often mingled in public these days, he still valued his privacy. Besides, Mrs. Brackenstall deserved a little consideration. He was trying to understand things from her point of view. The woman had enough on her mind these days, what with her husband missing and all. She deserved a little thoughtfulness on his part, even if she did sometimes annoy him greatly.

Hassan continued showing him around. "We have a galley as well as a salon, which doubles as a dining room, and a small sitting room where guests can socialize."

Erik inspected the interior of the cabins. The walls and ceilings in all were painted a clean, bright white with detailing picked out in gold. The furnishings in each cabin included a bed and chair, and a washstand fixed to the wall. There was also a looking glass – also fixed to the wall – a shelf, a row of hooks for hanging coats and wraps, and two large drawers under each bed, also for storing clothing and personal items. Lighting fixtures – lamps, lanterns, candleholders – were permanently affixed to tables and walls to ensure they did not tip over during the voyage. The smaller cabins were a bit crowded, but Erik didn't think that would pose a problem. It wasn't as if they were going to be on the Eye for months.

"Most satisfactory, Hassan," he said.

"Thank you, Monsieur."

Now they got down to discussing the specifics. Where would they be traveling? How quickly did they need to get there? When would they be leaving?

"We are going to Amarna," Erik said. "This isn't exactly a pleasure cruise, so the sooner you can get us there, the better. I also need to arrange for provisions. Can you be ready in, say, two days?"

Hassan bobbed his head up and down as he listened, reminding Erik of a shore bird spearing for fish. "The Eye of Horus will be ready by then. This time of the year, the trip should take the better part of a week. We sail only during daylight. No sailing will be done at night because of the danger of running aground on a sandbank or one of the low islands. Also, it will be slow going when we get to the great bend near Qena. There, the current changes directions, flowing first from west to east and then back from east to west. We may have to row much of that portion. As for whatever stores and provisions you order, have them sent here. My crew will load them for you."

The price was quickly negotiated. Satisfied on all counts, Erik made for his next stop – the provisions bazaar.

-0-0-0-

"See that these are sent to the Eye of Horus," Erik told the fruiterer.

It had been a long day – first, hiring a boat, now shopping the bazaars. Normally, Erik would have sent A'aqil to procure the stores and provisions needed for the expedition, but he thought it would be better to give A'aqil the day off so that he could rest and recuperate. Safa was also engaged, dividing her time between looking after her older brother and packing for the three of them. That left Erik to do the shopping.

He looked at the list of foods Safa had prepared, satisfied that he had everything well in hand. Fresh foods were the last item. Earlier, he had purchased tents, ropes, bedding, pots and pans, dishes, utensils, dry goods, and anything else he could think of that would be needed on the trip. Oh, and a surprise for Mrs. Brackenstall. A niggling voice inside his head told him that what he was doing would, under most circumstances, be considered overstepping his bounds, but he had a suspicion that Mrs. Brackenstall would appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

"Going somewhere?"

Erik looked and found Earhart Riemenschneider at his side.

"Who said I'm going anywhere?"

"You did. You told that man to send the food you bought to the Eye of Horus." The German put his ever-present cigarette to his lips and inhaled. "Are you taking the delectable Mrs. B. with you?"

"How do you know I'm not just making arrangements…for a friend?" Erik asked, annoyed.

Riemenschneider barked out a laugh and slapped Erik on the shoulder. "How does that old saying go? Don't try to kid a kidder?" He saw the murderous glare in Erik's eyes. "Oh, forgive me. I forgot. You don't like to be touched." He put his hand at his side, but other than that, made no effort to leave.

"I've got work to do, Riemenschneider. What do you want?"

"Me? Nothing. I was taking a walk, stretching my legs, when I happened to see you. 'Look,' I said to myself. 'It's my old friend, Rien.'"

Erik let out a snort and started walking away. Riemenschneider matched him, step for step, the two of them jostling their way through the ever-crowded streets.

"Do you plan on being gone very long?"

"I have no idea. A week. Two weeks. Maybe a month."

"And you're leaving the lovely Safa all alone in that big house of yours? That will not do, Rien."

"Who said I was leaving her behind?"

"Ah! Then she is going with you. Wise man."

"What is it to you if she stays or goes?" Erik snapped. Damn it, would the man not take a hint and leave him alone?

"I was going to offer to keep an eye on things for you while you're gone."

Erik looked at the German with suspicion. "In exchange for…what?"

"Nothing," Riemenschneider said innocently. "I heard your shop was broken into, and if you are leaving, I was concerned that something equally bad would happen while you are away. And even if that comely girl of yours is not there to alleviate my boredom in your absence, I am still more than willing to make good on my offer. No charge. None whatsoever. Just one friend doing a favor for another."

Erik surprised Riemenschneider by slapping him on the back and taking him up on his offer. "I'll hold you personally responsible if anything happens to my home or my business during my absence, Riemenschneider." And he said it in such a way that the German squirmed, much to Erik's satisfaction.

-0-0-0-

Two days later, the travelers were assembled on the dock, waiting to board the Eye of Horus.

Elizabeth arrived wearing her typical field clothes – a simple, light-colored blouse and skirt without frills, and no bustle. Her shoes were practical, too – boots that laced up and provided sure footing. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and tucked under a broad-brimmed sun hat. She frowned. Practical clothes, practical hat, practical shoes. That's what she was, a "practical" woman.

At her side was Ra'id, carrying a couple of small bags with last-minute items that had not been sent ahead the previous day with the rest of their meager luggage, including a couple of her books.

"I shall see that your cabin is properly prepared for you, Sitt," he said to her.

"I'm sure everything will be fine," she replied.

A few minutes later, Erik Rien arrived, accompanied by Safa and A'aqil. He nodded to Elizabeth, noting that she was plainly dressed, but in this instance, that was a positive thing. He approved her no-nonsense approach to clothing for this trip.

No lace, no rouge, no high fashion. She'll be no trouble at all.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brackenstall."

"Good morning, Mr. Rien," she said, returning his greeting.

She noticed that today he was a blend of East and West. He was wearing a khaki-colored shirt, the top two buttons left open, and matching trousers tucked into his calf-high Eastern-style boots. Over this, he wore a cream-colored robe and turban. As always, the lower half of his face was covered.

An unmarried woman might find his appearance romantic, she thought, rather like one of the last of the Barbary pirates. He certainly looks the part. No wonder Ra'id is suspicious of him.

Erik introduced his fellow passengers to Reïs Hassan, who assigned the cabins – Erik and Elizabeth to the larger ones, and Ra'id, A'aqil and Safa each a smaller one.

As they boarded the vessel, A'aqil hung back with Erik and leaned close so that his words would not be overheard.

"I shall make friends with Ra'id," A'aqil whispered, "and learn what I can about Mr. Leonidas."

Erik agreed. "Good idea. The more we can learn about Mr. Brackenstall, the easier it should make our job."

"And what is our job?"

"Find the missing husband. Find him, and we find out the rest."

-0-0-0-

Once aboard, the captain briefly explained that the crew would consist of himself, a steersman, and twelve sailors. "Since this is not a pleasure voyage, I have dispensed with a head cook and steward," Hassan said. "One of the crew will be happy to cook meals for you, or, if you prefer, one of you may do so."

The sailors were all young men who came from around Egypt. Five of the crew were local men. Four more came from Philae, near the first cataract; another came from near Kom Ombo, a place north of Aswan that was famous for its ancient temples; one was from Cairo; and two were Nubians from Aswan. Their complexions varied from bronze to near black.

"If the winds do not cooperate," Hassan explained, "my crew will row you to your destination."

"They look like the young men one sees portrayed in ancient Egyptian statues," Elizabeth murmured to herself, noting their broad shoulders, their slender hips, and powerful builds. "They might have stepped forward through time."

"Or, we might have stepped back," said Safa.

Elizabeth started. She hadn't realized the young Nubian girl was standing so close to her. "Yes, this is true."

Passengers and crew settled in for the trip. More than one young man tried to catch Safa's attention, but she paid them little heed. "It is true that they are pleasing to the eye," she admitted confessed to Elizabeth, taking advantage of the opportunity to share such confidences with another woman. "But I do not think I would like a husband who sails on a boat and is away from me for days and weeks, sometimes even months at a time."

With no cook, Safa volunteered to prepare their meals. "This way, I know that the food will be edible," she said, casting a glance at her brother.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked. "I wasn't planning on cooking. I'm still recovering from my concussion."

She laughed. "How convenient!"

Safa spent the afternoon preparing supper. She made some aish – a dark flat bread – a spicy bean stew, some rice, a salad of chickpeas, cabbage and diced tomatoes topped with a zesty dressing, and falafel made with veal, lamb and pigeon. For dessert, there was a variety of fresh fruits.

All the passengers except Erik were eating in the salon, and one of the young sailors helped Safa carry in the food. When she finished serving everyone else, she took a tray to Erik's cabin.

"Thank you for remembering that I don't eat in public," Erik said, accepting the tray from her. Since arriving in Egypt, he had become more comfortable about going out in public, but to eat, he still had to uncover his face and that was something he was not willing to do.

Among the canal men, his story of being scalded in a boiler accident had been accepted, but in a land such as Egypt – where superstitions could still run rampant among the natives – there was a greater chance of some ridiculously false notion taking hold. While Europeans might gawk and point at one such as him, the locals here were more likely to equate his face with something evil, possibly demonic. Even A'aqil had originally taken him for a leper. So he took his meals in private, where he could eat with his face uncovered, and not have to worry that somebody was going to jump up and scream.

"Yes, I understand." She remained standing in the doorway.

Erik lifted the cover from the dish and made a face. "Is this what we're having for supper tonight?"

"What were you expecting? Filet mignon?"

Erik shot her a look. "There's no need to be sarcastic."

"Well, you wouldn't be eating millet and lentils if you hadn't bought moldy flour! And that fruit you bought? It was inedible. Did you buy it early in the morning as I recommended you do?"

"No," Erik mumbled.

"No wonder! You bought them at the end of the day, didn't you? That seller saw you coming a mile away." Safa stood with her hands on her hips, looking her master up and down as if he were a naughty schoolboy.

"Sorry," he groused. "I did the best I could."

"You don't look sorry, but why should I worry? It's your money wasted."

Erik raised an eyebrow at her. "Maybe I'm not sorry. Maybe I only thought you'd enjoy hearing me say it."

"Men," Safa said, laughing all the while she chided her master. "It's no wonder you need us women around. If left to your own devices, you'd all end up starving to death. You need to check the goods more carefully. That man who sold you the fruit? He put nice, ripe pieces on top, but underneath he mixed in rotten ones."

Erik pretended to look hurt. "Were my choices really that bad?"

She broke out in a grin. "No," she said, bringing in a dish she had hidden outside the door while she played her little trick on Erik. "Here's your real supper. Forgive me, Master, but you've been looking far too serious of late and I thought you could use some cheering up. But next time, stick to the list I give you. Fewer mistakes that way."

She made to leave the cabin, but stopped at the door as she pondered a thought.

"Was there something else?" Erik asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I was wondering if I might take the leftovers and offer them to the crew. While we eat only the best of foods, the sailors sit on deck and eat only bread and lentils, with a little coffee – two times a day – along with a handful of dates," she said. "Surely we can share some of our bounty?"

The girl hardly ever asked a favor, and when she did, it was almost always for someone else. "Yes, Safa," he said. "By all mean, let us share our bounty."

Later that evening, the day's work done and the boat safely moored for the night, the crew gathered on deck to relax. They sat cross-legged in a circle; their faces illuminated by the glow of lanterns hanging from the masts, and entertained the passengers with their music and songs.

Instruments were brought out. There was the tar, a kind of native tambourine that was held upright with one hand and struck with the fingers of the other, and the darbookah, or goblet drum, with its funnel shape and distinctly crisp sound. And the cocoanut fiddle, also known as the kemengeh, a small two-stringed fiddle. It had a body made from half of a cocoanut shell, a very long neck, and a long foot that rested on the ground. The strings were made of twisted horsehair, and it was played with a bow that was about a yard in length.

The musicians thrummed and their voices quavered in plaintive airs. The fiddler was a master of his art and made many extemporaneous variations on the melodies and embroidered them even further with difficult and sometimes extravagant cadenzas.

Erik stood on the upper deck, watching and listening. He thought of other warm evenings in France, and a fiddle player named Aldric. A faint smile formed on his face. Footsteps approached from behind. He was surprised to find Elizabeth join him on the deck.

"Many Europeans find the native music unpleasant," she said, leaning against the rail and looking down at the performers. "But you appear to be enjoying it."

"It is certainly different from what Westerners are used to hearing, but it has its own haunting beauty."

"You're a music lover, aren't you," she said.

"What makes you say that?" Erik asked. "Because I stand here and listen to them?"

"Not only that, but your house. The day I called upon you, I remember seeing a wall covered with a variety of musical instruments."

"I have an interest." Erik was impressed. Not only was she intelligent, but observant, too. "You appear to have a fondness for it, too – the Eastern music."

"Standing here on a dahabeeyah, listening to the men sing and play, brings back many wonderful memories."

"Of your husband?"

"No, my father." She lowered her eyes, almost ashamed to admit that it was not her husband she was thinking of. "When I was growing up, my father often brought me to Egypt with him."

"He was a scholar, too?"

She smiled. "Still is, although he's retired now. He is a professor of Egyptology, and he taught me to love this land with its stark desert beauty, verdant river valley, and ancient, mysterious temples and pyramids."

Erik looked over at the western landscape, the steep cliffs in the distance, silhouetted in the moonlight, the myriad of stars winking above. "It is a place one can learn to love with all one's soul," he said more to himself than to Elizabeth.

It was a perfect winter's evening. The air had cooled and the wind, which had helped them along their way during the day, had died off with the sunset. The two of them stood in comfortable silence for several minutes, listening to the music, not feeling the need to say anything.

Elizabeth eventually broke their silence. "By the way, I wanted to thank you for your very thoughtful gift."

Suddenly, the ease that had developed between them evaporated. The mention of his gift left Erik uncomfortable.

"I apologize for being presumptuous. I was thinking only of your comfort on the trip…when we'll be out in the desert."

"Yes," she said, and he saw the faintest touch of a smile playing on her face, "I imagine most would consider a relative stranger buying clothes for a woman presumptuous, but I found the split skirt to be the perfect thing for our expedition. I'm only sorry I hadn't thought of it myself."

Erik felt relief settle back in. "Then…you're not offended?"

"No, I am not, Monsieur Rien, although when we find my husband, it would probably be best not to mention this to him."

Erik looked her in the face, and with that impish smile on her lips, she looked…well, she looked quite beautiful. Funny he hadn't noticed this about her before.

Must be the soft glow of the lanterns.

"You understand, of course, that my only concern was for your comfort and ease of travel when we're out in the wild."

"Of course." She realized he must be smiling beneath the scarf that covered his face. He looked …well, he looked quite dashing, with his smile showing in his eyes.

Why didn't I notice this before? she wondered. Must be the soft glow of the lanterns.

"Yes. Of course," he repeated mechanically, an odd sensation taking hold of him.

Stop being a fool! She's only being polite.

"I am curious, however, about one thing. How did you know what size to get? You didn't happen to ask Ra'id, did you?"

"Do I look like a fool?" Erik asked. "If I had gone to your man with such a request, he would sooner have chewed my head off than speak to me. Even now, I suspect he doesn't care for me."

She laughed again, a delightful, sparkling sound. "You're right. He probably would have done just that, but I don't think he doesn't like you, just that he doesn't know you, and is wary. Ra'id worked for my father and can be very protective of me. But…how did you know whether the skirt would fit? I mean…oh blast, perhaps it's best I don't know." She felt her face grow warm.

Thank goodness he can't see me blushing like this.

Erik raised a shoulder, and let it fall eloquently. She must have assumed he had plenty of experience with women's clothing. "There was nothing improper involved, I assure you. The simple truth is, I guessed."

"Well, you made a good guess. Thank you – again."

"By the way, I am curious. Why are you always blowing things up?"

"What? Oh, you mean when I say 'blast it'? Simple, really. My father taught me to say that rather than use other, more unladylike expressions."

Erik let out a chuckle. "Thank you for explaining. At least I won't be worrying about you planting explosives under my bed."

"We women are more subtle than that," she said, teasingly. "My husband likes to make fun of me, says he imagines there are times when I want to plant snakes or scorpions in his bed when he makes me angry." Then she became more serious. "Mr. Rien, I…this is rather awkward, but it's something that has been troubling me. I hope you don't think that the only reason I am being nice is because I am indebted to you." She halted. "I will confess that it is certainly a relief not to be alone in this search for my…Oh, that didn't sound right, either. What I mean is, I wish we had met under happier circumstances. Perhaps, if we had met by chance, we might have been…friends. As it is, we are allies, seeking to solve a mystery in which we have become entangled."

"Can't we be both?" Erik offered.

Elizabeth paused, considering the ramifications. She hadn't intended it, but she found she was drawn to this strange man, this man who refused to show his face and who kept his distance. Her resolve to remain wary began to wane and she found herself nodding in agreement. "We can," she said, with more confidence than she felt.

The music came to an end, the lanterns were turned down and everyone began to make their way to their cabins. The crew grabbed blankets and through a prearranged order, settled down on the deck to sleep. From below, Ra'id called up to Elizabeth to inform her that her cabin was ready.

"I suppose that's my cue to turn in as well," Elizabeth said. "I shall wish you good night, Monsieur Rien."

"And you as well, Mrs. Brackenstall."

"You know, you're not such a bad person…when you make an effort to be friendly," she said, and walked away.

Erik stood on the deck and continued staring at where she had been, long after she had gone. What a contradiction she was – one time snappish and quick-tempered, and the next, kind and friendly. "You're not such a bad sort, either," he said after she left, echoing her words. "When you make an effort to be friendly."

-0-0-0-

**Note: **_Reïs_ means Captain


	11. Of Gods and Lettuce

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 11  
****Of Gods and Lettuce**

Elizabeth had never liked inactivity. The whole "lady of leisure" attitude was foreign to her. For Elizabeth, being idle was a waste of time that was almost sinful, in spite of _Reïs_ Hassan's and Erik Rien's assertions that she should take advantage of the slower pace they were now enjoying. Once they reached Amarna, they assured her, there would be plenty to do.

She groaned inwardly at such stuff and nonsense. It was ludicrous, the idea that because she was a woman she would be of little use in a masculine world. How many times in her life had she had to disprove that notion, whether in the academic world or in the field? The concept made her laugh. If the truth were known, these men didn't want her around was because they were afraid she would show them up!

She looked around her small cabin and considered her options. Sitting inside didn't appeal to her. Neither did sitting on the upper deck. She wasn't in the mood to read, and besides, the selection of reading material was limited to several well-worn books Captain Hassan kept on the boat for his passengers – none of which interested her – her field journal, and two slim volumes of a scholarly nature she'd brought along in case she would need them to aid in translating.

She had tidied her room several times, but still could not shed the restive feeling that had come over her. Surely, there was something else she could do. The restlessness would not quit, and so she retreated to the one place where she knew her help would be wanted – the galley. Yes, that was it. She would help Safa prepare today's meal. Surely, the girl would welcome her help, and besides, it would give Elizabeth a chance to learn more about the enigmatic Monsieur Rien.

-0-

"It is very kind of you to offer to help, Sitt."

Safa went to the icebox and brought out some leafy bundles of lettuce. "We should probably use this soon," she said, placing the greens in a bowl and setting them on the table. "These vegetables won't last very long in this heat, even with an ice box." She handed Elizabeth a knife and a chopping block. "If you wish to help, you could chop the lettuce into small pieces. I am making a special soup, one that is served chilled."

Elizabeth stood looking at the bowl of leaves, a smile curling the edges of her mouth.

"Is there something funny, Sitt?"

"A humorous thought occurred to me," Elizabeth said as she grabbed a handful of lettuce and started chopping. "Did you know that the ancients believed lettuce to be an aphrodisiac?"

Safa scrunched up her face in puzzlement. "An aphro . . . I am sorry; I do not know this word."

Elizabeth immediately regretted bringing up the subject. Hadn't Safa's brother mentioned her having had to come north because of some kind of difficulty with a man? "I shouldn't have brought it up it, Safa. It was nothing."

"I am not a child, Sitt. You can tell me." The girl leaned closer. "It is something 'adult', as my brother would say, is it not?"

Elizabeth looked over at Safa and saw the intense curiosity in her dark brown eyes, along with the glimmer of mischief. She considered how to word this delicately. "The ancient Egyptians associated lettuce consumption with…male virility."

Safa's eyes grew wider, and the glimmer of mischief grew into a full-blown grin. "Ah!" she said. "I see now why you thought you should not speak of this to me." She winked at Elizabeth. "Do not worry, Sitt. This conversation shall remain our secret."

"Yes, well . . .," Elizabeth grabbed another bunch of lettuce and chopped furiously, trying to ignore the flush she felt on her cheeks.

"Hmm...perhaps," Safa said, reconsidering, "we should not have lettuce soup, after all."

"Why not?" Elizabeth asked, trying to pretend that the previous exchange had never taken place. "A cool, light soup would perfectly compliment this evening's supper." She stopped chopping and inhaled the fragrance of the chicken stock boiling on the stove. "I'm getting hungry already."

"Yes, but now you have me worrying about the lettuce. I mean, how will it affect…well, the men on this boat? What if it causes my master to, you know, find himself attracted to you?"

Elizabeth glanced over at Safa and saw the laughter in the girl's eyes. "For a moment, you had me worried that you were serious."

-0-0-0-

"I'm bigger than that," A'aqil said to Ra'id with a smirk. True to his word, A'aqil had been working hard to make friends with Mrs. Brackenstall's man, and had struck up a conversation with him. At the moment, the two were standing off in a corner on the main deck, out of the way of Reïs Hassan and the crew. Their heads went bent down as they hunched over, looking at...something.

In spite of his advanced age of nearly forty years, Ra'id was strikingly handsome. He kept his cheeks clean-shaven and sported a luxuriant mustache that was shot with steaks of gray, the same as his hair, giving him a distinguished look that undoubtedly turned many female heads wherever he went. In addition to being extremely loyal to the Brackenstalls – especially Mrs. Brackenstall – A'aqil learned that Ra'id also had a wicked sense of humor.

Ra'id let out a guffaw and gave A'aqil a friendly jab in the ribs. "Isn't everyone?"

"Where did you get this?" A'aqil asked. "It looks genuine."

"It is genuine," Ra'id said with a rebuke. "What do you think I do, sell fakes – like some people I know?"

A'aqil assumed an air of innocence. "Are there people who do such things?"

A third person came upon them in the midst of their joking. "What are the two of you up to?"

A'aqil and Ra'id both nearly jumped, startled by Erik's unexpected presence.

"You should wear a bell, Master. You frighten me, sneaking up so quietly."

Erik snickered. "Why should I reveal my presence when it much more fun coming upon you unawares? Oh!" he exclaimed, spying the object of their attention. "What have we got here?"

"Ra'id was showing me an amulet he had found several seasons back, when he worked with the Sitt's father, Professor Cutteridge, and which he carried for good luck," A'aqil said, grinning. He gave Erik a knowing wink. "It is of Min."

"We were discussing the god's...attributes," added Ra'id. He handed the amulet to Erik.

Min was one of the earliest of the ancient Egyptian gods, whose cult dated back to predynastic times. Min was represented in many different forms, but the most common was that of an ithyphallic human male who held his erect member in his left hand, and a flail in his upraised right hand.

"A god of fertility and harvest," Erik said appreciatively, examining the talisman. "I must say, that...condition would be unlikely for any man – except a Frenchman." He returned the good luck charm to A'aqil.

"A god of male sexual virility," said A'aqil, admiringly. "Now here's a god a man can respect."

"A most potent god," said Ra'id, with a knowing smile.

"A diety for whom orgiastic rites may have been held," added Erik.

Ra'id nodded enthusiastically. "Orgies!"

"Ah," sighed A'aqil. "For the good old days."

A shrill admonition startled the three of them. "Is that all you ever think about?"

The three men turned around, embarrassed to discover Elizabeth on deck with them, with Safa in tow. Elizabeth was staring daggers at the trio while at the same time trying to keep Safa behind her. Safa, on her part, was standing on her tiptoes, craning her neck as she tried to see what all the fuss was about.

"I thought the two of you were making supper," Erik said, attempting to hide his surprise.

Elizabeth made a noise. "If women were only interested in a man's physical attributes, we'd never marry," she snapped testily. "And you!" she said, squaring her shoulders at Erik. "You...you're...you're supposed to be setting an example for this young lady." She indicated Safa. "Instead, you're nothing but a typical Frenchman!"

"I am proud to be a Frenchman," Erik retorted, his jaw rising angrily under the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. "The French are widely recognized as the world's greatest lovers. Besides, we were only admiring the archeological importance of this relic."

"Don't try playing coy with me, Monsieur Rien. I know exactly what you were admiring."

Erik sighed, wondering what happened to the gentle woman from the previous evening. "I wouldn't dream of trying to be coy with you. You're far too clever for me."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" asked Safa, following the conversation with great interest.

Elizabeth scowled in disapproval. "Safa, pay no heed to these…men. A proper gentleman would not be looking at an antiquity with prurient interest."

"Pru-ri-ent? What is that?" asked Safa, but nobody appeared to hear her.

"And a proper scholar would not be shocked to find laity discussing the obvious attributes of a relic," Erik replied sarcastically.

Elizabeth compressed her lips in annoyance. "You should be ashamed."

"Madame, if I were ashamed of...that...I would not be a man. And as you have been so quick to point out, I am not an academic such as yourself."

"Here I thought perhaps, just perhaps, you were different. I see I was wrong. You are no different than...than...." Elizabeth's outburst of irritation came to an abrupt, sputtering end. Too angry to continue, she twirled around in a huff and stormed away.

Safa, however, lingered, eyeing the small deity with such intensity that the men were ready to die from shame.

"Excuse me," Ra'id said. "I must see that the Sitt's cabin is made ready." And he beat a hasty retreat below deck.

"I believe I hear Captain Hassan calling," said Erik, beating an equally hasty retreat in the other direction.

That left only Safa and her brother – and Min. She took it so she could scrutinize it more closely. "Is this really what men are like?" she asked playfully.

"No!" said A'aqil, snatching back the amulet. "Cover your eyes, little sister! It is not proper for you to see this."

"Nonsense! Sitt says that women can do anything that men can do."

"I'm sure she does," A'aqil grumbled.

"Brother, what happens?" she asked. "I mean, I've heard the stories from my aunties. But what really happens when a man and woman wed? Do men really have...that? It looks awkward. How does he walk with it sticking out like that? Does he have to wear special clothing? If his clothing is too tight, I am sure he would be very uncomfortable."

A'aqil swallowed hard. "I...I think Sitt can explain it better than I can. After all, I am a mere man."

She paused to consider her brother's words. "Your suggestion bears great merit, my brother. She is a married woman. I shall ask her right away!" She ran off, in search of Elizabeth.

That night, at supper, there were uncomfortable glances shared at the table. Safa was noticeably quiet but was constantly exchanging meaningful looks with Elizabeth, and A'aqil knew that his little sister was growing up.

-0-0-0-

The day started early, as preparations were underway to navigate the Qena bend, a dramatic curve in the course of the Nile River. From Luxor, they had been traveling in a north-by-northwesterly direction, the course of the river running fairly straight, but about 59 miles north of the city, there was a dramatic bend in the river. Near Qena, the Nile made a drastic change of course, turning east by north, then, further up, it shifted again in an almost westerly direction, before finally resuming its original course. Because of the twists and turns, and the many water hazards involved, men had to tow the boats through certain parts of the bend by men in much the same way that the European canal barges were towed by mules.

The Qena bend was named for the city of Qena, the provincial capital and the nearest stopping place for tourists interested in visiting the ancient temples at Dendera. The temple complex at Dendera was a popular stopping point and was renowned for its beauty. Most of the buildings dated from the Ptolemaic era, but archaeological evidence suggested that the site had been in use as far back as the Old Kingdom – more than two thousand years before Christ. The ancients had called it Iunet or Tantere, and an Arab town grew up on the site bearing the name Ta-ynt-netert, which meant "She of the Divine Pillar." The name became shortened to Tentyra, for which Dendera was the Greek form.

Leaving the task of hauling the boat to the sailors, Erik and Elizabeth found themselves on the observation deck. Most of the crew had gotten off the boat and were pulling the Eye of Horus along by means of ropes tethered to the dahabeeya, while Hassan and the steersman guided it along, watching for sandbars and sunken islands. Along the shore, villagers gathered to watch the difficult operation. Some even brought chairs along, the spectacle making a pleasant diversion. Erik had spoken to Hassan earlier, and had agreed to pay double baksheesh to any local boys who would help tow the boat.

Qena was one of the most fertile regions in Egypt. Along the shore, there were mud brick villages with dove towers, and lush, green farms. The annual inundation of the River Nile had once again brought fertile soil to Egypt, and after the waters had receded, the farmers had planted their crops of wheat, barley, flax, vegetables such as garlic, onions, corn, leeks, radishes, cabbage, Egyptian lettuce, cucumbers, asparagus, peas and various spices. There were also many fruit trees that provided dates, figs, grapes and pomegranates.

"Look, over there." Elizabeth pointed to man operating a shaduf, a device used to raise water from the river and into irrigation ditches. After yesterday, she was trying to find a neutral subject.

Erik watched the man operate the shaduf, a strange-looking device with an upright framework to which was attached a pole and looking rather like a seesaw. On the end of the seesaw was attached a bucket, and on the other a counterweight. The man raised and lowered the arm using the counterweight to help, dipping the bucket into the river, then swinging it back over and emptying it into an irrigation ditch.

"The Egyptians have been using shadufs almost from the time their civilization began," Elizabeth continued. "You can see them in the tomb paintings. They have not changed in all this time."

Erik said nothing, only nodded.

"He who rides the sea of the Nile must have sails woven of patience," said Elizabeth, trying to engage her taciturn traveling companion. She saw Erik quirk an eyebrow at her. "It's an old Egyptian proverb," she explained.

Erik finally broke his silence. "So I gathered." He returned to silently watching the landscape.

"The ancients called this season peret – the Season of Emergence," Elizabeth continued. "It was the winter season of the ancient Egyptian calendar, following the Season of the Inundation, or akhet. Egypt truly is the gift of the Nile, for when the floodwaters recede, the people know that once again, they can plant their fields."

"I'm surprised you're talking to me, after yesterday," said Erik, coolly.

Elizabeth blushed. "I...I may have...overreacted," she said. "I had no business interrupting what was a private conversation."

"This is true."

Elizabeth gave an audible groan. "Must you always agree so quickly? I was only thinking of Safa. I did not wish to see her exposed to such...ribaldry."

Erik replayed yesterday's confrontation in his mind and tried to see it through her eyes. Her concern for Safa changed the complexion of things. "You are kind to take an interest in Safa. She hasn't always been treated compassionately, through no fault of her own."

"Despite what you may think, I am not an unkind woman."

"I never said you were."

"I have often had to be hard, to take control of the workers and to manage our excavations. I'm afraid my husband does not always have a good head for such things," she said, a small note of self-deprecation in her voice.

"You have many skills," he assured her.

"Don't patronize me. I am not seeking compliments," she said sourly.

"And I am not giving them. I do not believe in giving false praise. I am merely stating facts. You have many admirable qualities. Anyone can see that." He leaned slightly closer to her. "I can see that."

She lowered her head, finding herself drawn to him even though it was against her better judgment. Was he some sort of mesmerist? She'd heard of such men...and yet...and yet, she found herself leaning towards him in return.

What is it about this man that makes me feel this way? Is it something about his eyes? His voice? His very presence?

She was becoming aware of his masculinity, and realized that he was everything she had wanted Leo to be – intelligent, commanding and strong.

"Yes...," she said softly.

"Do not fight me, Elizabeth. I am not your enemy." It was the first time he'd ever used her first name.

Stop this! he scolded himself. Do not try to influence her with your voice. She is not someone to be manipulated like...Christine. You will treat Elizabeth with respect, you stupid fool. She said you were her friend – now act like one! Nothing more. Nothing less. Only...friends. And once we find her husband, probably not even that.

Elizabeth found herself caught up in the emotion of the moment as well. "I...I realize...."

"You are worried about your husband. You are worried about your livelihood. But you do not have to worry about me. We are friends, you and I. Remember?"

"Friends," she said with a resigned smile. "I haven't had a friend in a very long time, Monsieur. Not since I married."

"Surely your husband is your friend."

"I mean...I mean...blast!" she said, irritated at herself.

"We will help each other," he assured her.

"And when this is all over, after we've found Mr. Brackenstall and returned to our homes, we will still be friends?"

"I will always be your friend...if you will let me."

Elizabeth smiled weakly at that, but then it grew into a beaming, beautiful smile. "Well, we did make a pact."

"With a handshake," Erik replied brightly. "Do Englishwomen break their promises?"

"Not this one."

They returned to watching the men towing the barge, standing in comfortable silence as their boat snaked its way through the treacherous waters of the Qena bend. A slight breeze stirred, teasing a few tresses of her golden-brown hair loose from her tightly bound coiffeur. She raised a hand to pin it up.

"You should let it be," Erik suggested, without even turning to look at her. "It is beautiful in the sunlight. It looks like spun gold."

She laughed nervously. "Leo says I should have been born with red hair, to serve as a warning to everyone who crosses my path. I have a temper, in case you hadn't noticed."

Erik shrugged. "I used to have a temper, but I learned to control it."

"How? Perhaps I could use some advice."

"I don't offer any."

They stood watching the men as they toiled, listened to them as they sang a work song to distract them from their labor. Erik broke the silence between them.

"Before I came to Egypt, I...I lost everything I had because of my temper. I worked my way from France to Africa, simply because I wanted to see the pyramids. To see these great antiquities that have stood from time immemorial taught me patience...and peace of mind. Not during all my travels -- and I have traveled the world over, Elizabeth -- had I ever known peace. Not until I came here. And so I stayed."

As he spoke, Elizabeth took the opportunity to look at him more closely. The scars on the exposed part of his face were angry-looking in the midday sun, and his right eye watered. He squinted in the sunlight and lifted a hand to wipe the tear away. She watched his finger as it traced the corner of his eye. The lump that covered half his brow offered poor shade for his light green eyes.

It must hurt, she thought. His damaged eye must be irritated by the sun, the wind, and the constant irritation of sand. His scars must be terrible, to keep himself wrapped up the way he does. I had thought him too proud to share his meals with others, but in truth, he is trying to be polite. He must be hideously scarred, to believe he must protect others from the sight of him.

"My father always said that Egypt has a way of teaching us what is important," she said.

"Your father is a wise man, my friend."

"My father would like you, Erik." The words escaped her lips before she had a chance to reconsider them.

He shot her a surprised glance, and scoffed skeptically. He hadn't even realized that she used his first name. "Your father would wonder what sort of blackguards you've thrown in with, and, if he has your temper, he'd threaten me within an inch of my life should any harm come to you."

"Well then," she laughed, "you'd best see that no harm comes to any of us, or you'll have to answer to Professor Alpheus Cotteridge."

She thought she detected the outline of a smile beneath the adthabah of his turban, the scarf covering the lower part of his face. "Did I make you laugh?" she asked playfully.

"It's the thought of an angry father coming after me," he said, laughing out loud. "It isn't a notion I thought I'd ever have to worry about."

"Surely you've had your share of...oh. I see what you mean."

"Marriage is not for me."

"You are a confirmed bachelor, then. A man like you needs his freedom."

"Where better to find it, than in this vast wilderness?" he said, sweeping his hand across the view of the landscape before them.

"Is that why you wear the symbol of the hawk?"

Erik looked down at his pendant. "The hawk flies where it wishes. The sky is its domain. It is the symbol of the soul."

"That is not just any hawk," she said, "but Ra-Horakhty, a god who combined the attributes of Ra and Horus – both solar gods – and which represented the sun's journey from horizon to horizon. Ra-Horakhty was often linked to the pharaohs."

She also thought of how Ra-Horakhty represented hope and rebirth, and wondered if that wasn't what Erik was longing for.

-0-0-0-


	12. The Sketchbook

**Quick Note here. **I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who is reading _Treasures of Egypt_, and especially those of you who are taking the time to let me know that you are enjoying this story. I was trying to keep up with replying to individual reviews, but got sidetracked the last couple of weeks and so want to let all of you know how much your comments are appreciated.

To Mominator, whose email wasn't working, and anyone else who was wondering...I have long been fascinated with Ancient Egypt, and especially the Amarna period, going back to when I was in grade school. I've brushed up on a few things here and there, to make sure I had my facts correct, and the chance to write a story with Egyptology as a theme, even a secondary one, has been a great joy for me.

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 12  
****The Sketchbook**

Erik opened his travel bag and took out his sketchbook and box of pastels. Now that they were past the Qena bend, he intended to take advantage of what he anticipated would be an uneventful trip to Amarna. The weather was perfect for making sketches of the landscape. When the trip was over and he was back in Luxor, he would take the best of the sketches and create watercolors from them. Who knows? If they were good enough, he would have them framed and sell them at his shop along with the antiques.

Back when he had been living at the opera house, drawing and painting had been one of his few escapes from his intense loneliness. During those first months after Hélène had helped him escape from an existence of neglect and abuse, Erik had discovered the pleasure found in drawing. With scraps of paper and bits of charcoal, he'd started by creating pictures that captured scenes from daily life within the vast building. When he showed them to Hélène, she had encouraged him to continue developing his talent. As his work improved, she would occasionally sell one or two of his paintings, and used the money earned to purchase Erik's basic necessities, setting aside a few coins each month with which she would buy paper and pencils, pastels, and later paints.

In time, the walls of his subterranean rooms became decorated with paintings and sketches. There were the ballet rats in rehearsal, the divas singing their arias, the baritones and tenors each trying to upstage the other, the stagehands scurrying about, and pictures of scenes from works by Lully, Rameau, Berlioz, Gluck, Rossini and Meyerbeer.

Once he became adept at drawing, Erik branched out into set design and decoration. Many times, he would devise new and creative backdrops for the different operas. One day, he grew bold enough to leave the sketches and designs on the managers' desk along with a note suggesting that they might want to consider utilizing them, thus beginning a long and sometimes rocky relationship with the managers, and the creation of the persona known as the Phantom of the Opera.

Even during the years when he'd left the safety of the opera house and had set out on his own, traveling throughout the continent and the East, he drew. And when he returned to Paris once again, disenchanted with the world, he'd brought his sketches with him. Once more ensconced in the sanctuary of his lair, he created paintings of fantastic landscapes filled with mountains, deserts, and Oriental architecture.

During this time, Erik had resumed his studies of the opera house and its many denizens. While he'd been away, Hélène had married, given birth to a daughter, and been widowed. Many of the old, familiar faces were gone, and his drawings now included new faces accompanied by such names as Joseph Buquet, Ubaldo Piangi, a diva who went by the name of La Carlotta -- and a young girl named Christine Daaé.

After the disaster at the Opera Populaire, Erik had given up art. His heart was no longer in it, as it only served to remind him of everything he had lost. But time passed and the pain and grief faded into memory, and one day while visiting the ancient monuments of Luxor, he'd been struck once again with the urge to draw. Since then, he'd filled pads and sketchbooks with character studies, monuments, landscapes…and memories of those he'd once known.

-0-0-0-

Today was going to be a perfect day, Erik told himself. Passengers and crewmembers alike were getting along splendidly. A'aqil was making friends with Ra'id, Elizabeth and Safa appeared to be sharing female confidences, Hassan and his crew got their jobs done with ease and dexterity, all of this leaving no conflicts for Erik to mediate. With his sketchbook and pastels tucked under his arm, Erik headed out of his cabin and onto the upper observation deck. He chose one chair to sit upon, and grabbed a second to place in front of him. The second chair he propped his feet upon, using his knees as an easel against which to rest the pad of paper.

He flipped through the pages. The book was already half filled. There were many landscapes with palm trees, villages, mosques, sand-choked temples and monumental architecture, as well as everyday scenes of Egyptian life: a woman carrying a water jar on her head, a shepherd driving a herd of goats to the water's edge, and a farmer tilling the soil. There were portraits of people he knew, the faces of the crew and the passengers. And towards the back of the book were sketches from the past that, without any thought, had all but conjured themselves up. Erik turned away from those sketches. Today he would not thinking of the past. Today was reserved for the present.

"Oh, so you're an artist, too?" Elizabeth asked.

"I dabble," Erik said, surprised to find her standing behind him, and just as surprised that he felt a certain pleasure that she had found her way up here.

"Would I be bothering you if I sat and watched? I'm afraid I can't draw worth anything, and admire greatly those who can." She chuckled. "When I was young, my father liked to tease me by saying that all I could draw was flies!"

Erik laughed with her over her father's assessment of her artistic talents – or lack of same – and found himself wondering what life for the young Elizabeth Brackenstall (or rather, Elizabeth Cotteridge) must have been like. He imagined her growing up in a typical English cottage surrounded by banks of huge cabbage roses, and thought how wonderful it must have been raised in a real house, with a loving parent. She had never mentioned her mother, so he assumed the lady had passed away.

Had Elizabeth known her mother, he wondered, or had she like Christine, lost her mother before she was old enough to remember the woman. As for his own mother and father? The less thought on that subject, the better.

"What are you drawing?" Elizabeth asked. She wasn't sure of the slight scowl she saw crease Erik's forehead was merely from concentration, of if she were annoying him. "Sorry, I'm interrupting your concentration. I'll be quiet."

"You're not interrupting at all," he said, and continued drawing with swift, easy strokes of the pencil.

"Then I must commend you, sir," she said lightly. "You are that rare breed of man, one who can actually concentrate on two things at once." The creased brow disappeared, and although she could not see the smile she'd evoked on his face, she could it reflected in his eyes.

_He looks most handsome when he smiles,_ she thought, _even with that unfortunate scar. It's a shame he feels compelled to keep most of his face hidden, although no doubt he has encountered many a gawker and does not wish to incur any further reactions of that sort._

She watched admiringly, intrigued by his hands. The calluses on them told her he was a man accustomed to hard work, but at the same time, she marveled at how delicately he held the pencil. They were large hands, strong hands – yet they were also the delicate hands of an artist. Unlike many men she knew, his nails were neat and trim. An image of Safa giving him a manicure caused her to smile. She also noticed for the first time that he was left-handed, which for some strange reason she found endearing.

The ease with which the picture took shape amazed her. First, Erik made a few faint lines, blocking in the general shape of the composition. Then, he added hints of details with the pencil. Turning next to the pastels, he chose various shades of color – browns, pinks, golds, ochres, greens, lavenders, and light blues – and began filling in the background with its pale, cloudless sky, followed by the muted shades of the distant cliffs. Next, he filled in the middle ground, adding perspective to the landscape through the use of color, changing from the muted shades of dull, empty desert to the deeper, verdant greens of rushes, grains and palm trees, and the deep, rich browns of the soil along the shore. Last to be filled in was the foreground with the deep blues of the Nile itself.

"You make it look so easy," she sighed.

"Would you like to try?" Erik asked. He motioned for her to bring her chair closer so that they could share the paper.

"Oh, but I couldn't. I mean, I'd only ruin a perfectly good piece of paper."

"Nonsense. Besides, how can a person learn if he or she doesn't make a mistake now and then?" He handed her the sketchbook, and shoved his chair closer to hers so he could offer help if needed.

She accepted the book, picked up the pencil and made a few stiff lines. She looked at her handiwork and groaned in frustration. "It's hopeless. I told you I was no good at this."

"Allow me to help," he said. "First, you must relax. You've got a death grip on the poor pencil." He demonstrated the proper position and, amazed at his own temerity, placed his hand over hers. He helped draw in the first few strokes, half-expecting her to recoil at his touch. When nothing happened, he grew more comfortable. "Not so tight," he admonished gently. "Remember; hold the pencil gently, loosely. Let it flow across the paper."

She tried again. This time, the lines were better, more natural. "This is jolly good fun!" she exclaimed with a giddy grin. "I feel like I'm back in primary school." After a few minutes, she had the basic outlines of a landscape.

Erik continued encouraging her, observing her progress and growing confidence with the pride of a teacher. The basic forms drawn in, he now handed her the box of pastels and helped her pick out the colors to use. "Now, let's try filling it in."

Throughout the lesson, they became aware of a commotion on deck. Erik looked down onto the forepart of the deck. There was Captain Hassan shouting at the crew and pointing behind them. Erik turned his head and saw coming toward them an ugly, angry, roiling mass of yellow fog.

"It is a _haboob_!" Hassan yelled, the crew scrambling into action. He looked up at the passengers on the observation deck. "A sandstorm!" he shouted to Erik and Elizabeth. "Get inside! Secure anything that is loose. Then cover yourselves and go to the dining room. We must ride this out."

"Get below, quickly!" Erik urged Elizabeth as he jumped up from his chair. "And see to Safa!" A moment later, he was rushing down the steps to the main deck where he joined the crew, helping them take down the sails and getting the _dahabeeyah _into the deepest water they could find, and anchored her there.

Elizabeth was mesmerized by the incoming storm. She'd heard of the _haboob,_ but in all her time in Egypt, had never experienced one. She knew they could be nasty, and found herself unable to take her eyes off the storm that was threatening to engulf everything in its path. The shouts from below forced her to look away from the tempest and down at the activity on deck below. There, she watched approvingly as she saw Erik jump right in to help, not needing any instruction but rather seeming to know exactly what needed to be done. In spite of the approaching danger, she could not help but think that he looked positively heroic.

_He's magnificent,_ she thought to herself. _Leo will like him as much as I—oh, do be careful, Erik! Be safe._

The _haboob_, its huge wall of swirling dust and sand more than a mile high, continued its relentless rush toward them. It ripped across the river, the winds increasing in intensity, creating angry waves and blotting out the landscape. Dust, grit, and sand swirled around them, and Elizabeth galvanized herself into action and hurried to her cabin.

Once inside, she shut the door and took a deep breath, trying to keep her heart from racing. She realized she was holding something and looked down at her hands, and saw that she still had Erik's sketchbook. The boat rocked violently as the gusts became stronger. She glanced out the porthole and saw day become night. She checked the closure, made sure it was tightly shut, and hung a sheet over it to keep as much dust out as possible. Looking at the sketchbook, she tucked it away under the mattress, hoping it would be safe there. She would return it after the storm passed.

She went to her dresser and found a scarf. She draped it around her head and face, her eyes already burning and stinging. Even with the window shut, the dust managed to pour in through every rift and cleft. Having done everything she could to secure any loose items in her room, she pulled the scarf closer over her face and dashed to the galley. There she found Safa. Between the two of them, they quickly finished doing all they could to minimize damage and breakage.

"We've done all we can," Safa said, shouting to make herself heard above the storm.

Elizabeth nodded. "Let's go to the dining room. That's where everyone else is gathering."

The two women held hands as they made their way down the small hallway to the dining room. The boat lurched, knocking them both off their feet, as the heart of the _haboob_ slammed into the boat.

-0-0-0-

Safa went to the window and looked out at the storm. Sandstorms were nothing new to a girl of the Sudan. Sandstorms while on a boat, however, were. "Shouldn't we be closer to shore and tie up the boat?"

Captain Hassan who, along with the rest of the crew, was sitting out the storm in the main room along with the passengers, urged her away from the window. "The wind can pick up debris and break the glass," he told her. He held out a hand and guided her to the floor where the rest of them were sitting. "Usually, when a storm like this comes up, boats are safer if they are taken offshore and anchored loosely. If they're close to shore, they get torn up by hitting the banks."

It was hard to tell one person from another, with everyone's faces wrapped in scarves and blankets to keep floating dust and sand out of eyes and ears and mouths, but it wasn't hard to see that almost all of them were nervous as they sat listening to the groaning of the boards. Blankets were dragged out to cover cracks between windows and doors. Once the work was done, there was nothing left to do but wait it out.

While everyone else sat on the floor, Elizabeth paced the dining room. Her mouth was dry, her jaws clenched, her fingers were cold, and her stomach was knotted. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of helplessness every time the boat pitched from side to side. A gentle hand touched her arm, and she nearly jumped through the roof.

"Are you all right, Sitt?" asked a soft voice. It was Safa.

Elizabeth flashed the girl a wan smile. "Yes. Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"Because you look pale and worried."

"Thank you for your concern. I…I'm not comfortable with this wind, that's all." She wondered if it was her imagination, or was the boat coming apart.

Safa tsked. "Perhaps if you come and sit on the floor with the rest of us, you will feel better."

Elizabeth gave a little shake of her head. "No. I'm better if I'm on my feet, doing something." _You're a liar, _she scolded herself. _You're so nervous you can barely stand it. If you could, you'd run – but to where? You're stuck in a windstorm, stranded on a boat, in the middle of the river…_

Another blast of wind batted the _dahabeeyah_ around, interrupting her thoughts and throwing her off balance. She felt herself lifted off her feet, but instead of being slammed down on the hard wooden floor, she felt her fall cushioned by a pair of strong masculine arms.

"Safa's right," said Erik, his voice a beacon of calm. He guided her to the vacancy next to where he had been sitting. "It would be better if you sit for now, at least until you get your sea legs. Less likely to hurt yourself."

"I'm…" She stopped. She had intended to say that she was all right, but instead, she found she couldn't move. Was it fear of the storm that paralyzed her, or the feeling of electricity that shot through her body where Erik touched her? Her breath caught in her throat. After what she was certain had been an eternity, she felt movement return to her limbs and she allowed Erik to lead her to a safer haven.

She laughed nervously, trying to make light of her fear. "Funny, isn't it? I manage tarantulas, snakes, scorpions and other desert creatures, but a little wind unsettles me."

"Perhaps it is because we have no control over the wind," suggested Erik. "You can shoo away those desert creatures, but the wind? It shoos us away."

She cast him a tentative smile.

"Have storms always had this effect upon you?" he asked.

_Isn't this just like a woman?_ is what he really wanted to say. _She goes into tombs without a care in the world, but she's scared of a little wind. _But, he thought, if he kept her preoccupied with idle chatter, perhaps she would calm down and would be less likely to cause a panic among the others.

"I'm afraid they have, ever since I was a little girl," she admitted. "I believe I was about eight years old. Mother was still alive, and the three of us – mother, father and I – were just sitting down to supper. It had been a very warm, very muggy day, and clouds had been building off to the west. As we were eating, the storm broke loose with a vengeance. The rain fell so hard, you could barely see five feet in front of you. And the wind? It snapped several old oak trees in two. One huge branch from a favorite pear tree came crashing through the kitchen window. I was terrified."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Only my nerves," she admitted. "But the storm left quite a mess. What about you?" she asked, changing the subject. "Were you a yachtsman before coming to Egypt?" She remembered how easily he had known what to do when he helped the crew get the _dahabeeyah_ out of danger. Once again, an image of him having once lived a privileged lifestyle sprang to mind.

"I spent one summer working the barges in France," Erik replied, quickly dispelling her notion. "The work on the barges is really not all that different from what we did here," he responded, his tone of voice abruptly cool.

She sat there, wondering what had brought about this sudden change. It was most certainly different from the concern he'd expressed towards her during the height of the storm. Warm and passionate one moment, he could be cool and aloof the next. Educated, refined, sophisticated even, yet whenever he spoke of his past, it was of a down to earth upbringing. Whoever or whatever he really was, Erik Rien was a man of contradictions. _Men! _she thought. _How's a woman to ever figure them out!_

"You must have left home when you were young," she commented, not ready to end their conversation just yet. "Wanderlust?"

He looked away. "I never had what you would call a home until I came to Luxor. Egypt is my home."

"But you must have family in France," she pressed on. "Do you ever miss them? Perhaps long to visit, to taste elegant French cooking again?"

"He prefers my cooking," Safa said, interrupting them. Elizabeth smiled. It was obvious that the young Nubian girl was protective of her master. "Why would he want that heavy French food? All that cream! It can't be healthy. My food is much better for Master Erik."

Erik was bemused by all this attention. "I don't miss anything about France," he said finally, "except for an old friend."

"If you won't go there," said Elizabeth, "perhaps you can invite him to visit you in Luxor."

"_She_," he said quietly. "Her name is Hélène." He saw an unexpected look on Elizabeth's face. Was it disappointment? "She...she raised me," he added, obviously uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. "Listen," he said, cocking his head to one side. "The winds are dying down."

As soon as he said that, a loud clap of thunder rumbled across the sky and the heavens opened, dumping a brief but torrential blast of rain down upon them. Outside, the _wadis_, the dry riverbeds that cut through the cliffs, were temporarily filled with water that came rushing down the hills and into the Nile. Then, as quickly as it had come upon them, the storm departed. A cooling breeze picked up, the clouds broke and skittered off to the east, and the sun was shining once again.

Captain Hassan rose and gave orders to the crew. The winds had left a mess, and equipment had to be cleaned and, if necessary, repaired before they continue any further. Elizabeth accepted Erik's help in getting up off the floor.

"Thank you," she said, holding his hand a little longer than necessary.

"Yes, well..." He halted, reluctant to release her elbow.

She smiled, noticing he suddenly seemed awkward around her.

"I should see if Hassan can use an extra hand," he said to cover his embarrassment. "I'm sure there's plenty of work to be done."

-0-0-0-

The _Eye of Horus _made for shore where it was tied up. The crew set to work, drawing up buckets of water, washing everything down, hoisting the sails once again, and making sure all was in working order. Supper was a quiet affair made from whatever was readily available, as no one had had any time to cook.

The day had left everyone exhausted, and after helping Safa clean up the galley, Elizabeth made her way to her room. She shook the sheet down from the porthole and opened the window, allowing the cool night air to refresh the cabin. After a quick bath, she put on a loose-fitting caftan Leo had bought her shortly after their marriage. She hoped that by wearing something connected with her husband, she would dispel the scintillating feeling that she'd felt when Erik had saved her from falling.

She sat on the bed and remembered the sketchbook. She pulled it out and looked at the pictures Erik had drawn. In the front of the book, the pictures were of the same things he had shown here earlier – the sights and sounds of Egypt and the Nile. Then she saw the others, the pictures of a young woman with long, dark hair.

Sometimes this woman was dressed as a gypsy, other times, as a ballerina. She saw that in many of the sketches, Erik had included himself with the young woman. At least, she thought it was Erik. The only part of his face she'd ever seen was around his eyes. But this man, too, was wearing a mask, although not the kind Erik wore. It was a more traditional mask, the kind that covered the top portion of a person's face. If she looked closely, however, she could see the slightly malformed flesh about the right eye. Yes, this was Erik.

Though there was nothing risqué about the poses, the images were obviously romantic in nature. From the style of clothing, she suspected these were scenes from a play or perhaps an opera. She set the book aside and wondered who the young woman was. From the expressions on the faces and the positioning of the bodies, with the woman leaning into the man in what could easily be considered a seductive pose, Elizabeth suspected she was someone for whom Erik cared deeply. And why shouldn't he? He was a man, after all. Why wouldn't there be a woman in his life?

She picked up the book and looked some more. The mysterious young woman's face filled page after page, but as the sketches progressed, Elizabeth noticed the features changing. By the time she reached the last sketch, the face looking out from the pages was her own.

"Oh, dear god! What does this mean?"

She quickly slammed the sketchbook and tried to drive the images out of her mind. Images of Erik holding her, touching her, the feel of his body against hers.

"Stop it!" she scolded herself. "You're acting like a complete ninny. What do you think? That he is in love with you? You're a married woman, Elizabeth Brackenstall, and he's…he's…"

She went over to the drawer and pulled out the picture of Leo that she carried with her, forcing herself to look at her husband's smiling face.

"This is your husband. This is the man to whom you're married. This is the man you're supposed to love!"

She dug deeper into the drawer and brought out the fragment of the wall painting with its images of Egypt long past.

"This is what has brought you here," she said to herself. "This piece of painting. You are looking for your husband. You are _not_ a schoolgirl on an Egyptian holiday, looking for romance."

She placed both on top of her dresser, staring long and hard at them before turning down the lamp and crawling into bed.

-0-0-0-


	13. Dreams

Once again, my sincere thanks to eveyone reading this story. I know many of you have been waiting for things to "heat up." I hope this meets with your approval. Lizzy and I had a lot of fun working on this chapter! The sacrifices we make for our readers... ;-)

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Chapter 13  
****Dreams **

_O my beautiful one,_  
_I wish I were part of your affairs, like a wife._  
_With your hand in mine,_  
_your love would be returned._  
**~Ancient Egyptian Love Poem**

-0-0-0-

It was midday. In spite of the heat, the garden was cool. Elizabeth turned her head, taking in the fact that she was seated by a pool in an exotic courtyard. One thing was obvious. She was not on board the _Eye of Horus_. She admired the courtyard, which was large and spacious. Beneath her feet, the floor was paved with brightly painted tiles. Around her was a garden of earthly delights.

Rare flowers from the lands of Kush and Punt created a riot of color and filled the air with their heady perfumes. Fragrant shrubs and trees from as far away as the kingdoms of Mittani and Hatti added to the mélange. Overhead, long-armed monkeys scampered and chattered, and in the branches sat perched brightly plumed birds that twittered and sang.

The soft sounds of a song caught her attention, and as she looked off to one side, Elizabeth noticed there were half a dozen female musicians. They were plucking lutes and harps, and shaking sistrums. Like most Egyptians, they wore the scantest of clothing. More prominent than clothing were the elegant wigs they wore. Plaited and coiffed, the wigs were topped of with cones of scented wax that gave off a sweet perfume as they melted.

Elizabeth looked around at the walls that enclosed the courtyard, and at the cloudless sky. From the sun's position, dipping below the artificial horizon created by the walls, it was obvious that it was late in the day. She allowed herself to stretch languidly and lay her side, turning her face to the pool. Gazing down at her reflection, she was surprised at what looked back at her. It was her own face, yet different. No where could she see the likeness of a practical and proper Englishwoman. Instead, what she saw was the face that might have belonged to an ancient princess. She felt giddy as her reflection grinned back at her.

The no-nonsense part of her understood that this was a dream, but the romantic in her, that part which she kept hidden from all, did not care.

_If this is a dream, then make the most of it._

Her reverie was interrupted as the door opened and Taita, her faithful eunuch slave, entered. He made deep obeisance to her.

"What is it, Taita?" she asked.

"Great Queen, Lady of the Two Lands, I have been instructed to tell you that The Son of the Sun, He who Lives in Truth, the Living God commands that you wait upon him this evening," he replied. "He says..."

Taita halted.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"He says…he wants a footbath." The poor eunuch, who had schooled himself hard in controlling his emotions, blushed.

The girls stopped playing and tittered knowingly.

Elizabeth clapped her jeweled hands together. Recognition settled in and she was now able to identify who and where she was. She was the Great Queen Nefertiti, and this was her palace in Akh-et-aten, the city of the Horizon of the Aten. Centuries from now, it would be called Amarna.

"Silence!" she ordered the snickering girls. She turned her attention back to Taita. "You may tell my Lord and Master that I shall prepare myself for his pleasure."

The eunuch bowed again and left the room.

"Lady Thu," she called to her favorite maid. "You will ready me for my husband."

-0-

Elizabeth -- or was she to think of herself as Nefertiti? -- sat at her makeup table as her ladies assisted in readying her. A soft smile played across her face as she thought of the man she was married to, the Pharaoh Khuenaten. She knew that behind her back, her ladies felt sorry for her.

In their eyes, her husband was not physically appealing. The kindest thing they called him was The Grotesque One. Others, however, were much bolder and when they thought she couldn't hear them, said terrible things behind her back. A few courtiers even went so far as to suggest that she was more of a man than he was, that if Khuenaten were not Pharaoh, he might have been considered cursed. But Elizabeth/Nefertiti knew the truth, that while her husband did not exemplify the physical ideals of the Living God, he was a good and kind man. He was her husband and commanded her devotion.

Thu roused her from her contemplation. "Which would you like to wear tonight?" she asked, presenting several gowns from which to choose.

"This one," Elizabeth/Nefertiti said, choosing a simple sheath made from the sheerest, most revealing linen.

"But…it is so plain, so simple," her lady-in-waiting protested. "Surely, this pleated dress of gold tissue would be better?"

"No, this one will please my husband best. The beauty is in its simplicity."

"Very good."

Once dressed, kohl and malachite were applied to her eyes while her hands and feet were colored with henna. With her neck, arms and fingers bedecked with gold and semi-precious stones, she prepared to go to the pharaoh's chamber.

"Your crown, Lady," Thu reminded her.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti's lips curled into a sensual smile. "No. Tonight I go to Pharaoh not as a Queen, but as his slave."

-0-

Servants bowed deeply to her as they opened the door, admitting her to pharaoh's private chamber.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti blinked as her eyes adjusted to the difference in lighting. Instead of being filled with the radiance of the sun as it usually was, the room was unexpectedly dark and murky. For her husband's chamber to be darkened in this manner was...odd. Khuenaten, despite his physical defects, worshipped the light and had always prided himself as being "He who Lives in Truth." He cared not that others saw his imperfections and indeed reveled in them.

She took a hesitant step forward.

"Ah, Nefertiti," a voice said from out of the darkness.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti started. The voice addressing her was not that of her husband, but a stranger, one that was a deep, rich baritone. She shuddered, but whether in fear or anticipation, she was not sure. She looked to where the sound of the voice had come and watched with great curiosity as, out of the darkness, stepped a man clad only in a pleated kilt of the finest linen.

He took only two steps forward, enough to allow her to see most of him, but enough in the shadows that his face remained hidden. "Nefertiti -- The Beautiful One Comes," he said. "How perfectly your name suits you."

Elizabeth/Nefertiti boldly examined what she could see of this intruder who stood silhouetted against the faint light of sunset that filtered into the room, and what she could see was perfection itself. His skin was the color of bronze, and glowed as if kissed by the sun. She admired shoulders that were broad and strong, and a waist that was trim and narrow, and her fingers ached to explore him. From the planes of his chest and abdomen, to the well-developed arms, down to the muscled calves of his legs, his lean, muscular body, he had the appearance of a statue carved by a master sculptor. While most of his face remained hidden in shadows, a sliver of sunlight broke through the darkness and illuminated chiseled lips on a captivating mouth that begged to be kissed.

She could not help but smile approvingly. _Physical beauty is not the sum of a person,_ she reminded herself,_ but it does not hurt, either._

The mysterious man took another step closer, this time revealing his face. Upon his head, the stranger wore the nemes headdress -- the striped head cloth worn by pharaohs – but when she looked at his face, she gasped in surprise. Though not Khuenaten, this stranger looked familiar, his face reminding her of someone she knew, or at least, how she thought he might look were his face not damaged.

"You are not my husband," she said, stating the obvious. "Who are you?" she whispered, her heart in her throat.

The stranger graced her with a smile. "I am the Son of the Sun, He who Lives in Truth, the Great Bull, the Living God, the Lord of the Two Lands" he said. "I am..."

"Erik? What is this all about?"

The man-god blinked and tilted his head to the side in curiosity. "Erik? Who is Erik? I am the Son of Horus," he declared. Erik/Horus strode regally out of the shadows and sat languorously on a gilded throne. "The gods have heard your prayers, Nefertiti," he purred, "and have sent me to you...to fulfill your deepest desires."

She regained her composure and willed herself not to laugh.

_If he wants to play this game, well then, so can I. Besides, this is only a dream. What harm can come from it?_

She bowed low before him. When she raised her head, she was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "O Mighty Son of Horus! I, Nefertiti, your humble slave, am here to give you a footbath."

Erik/Horus nodded approvingly. "Proceed," he said with mock solemnity.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti knelt at his feet. She clapped her hands and two slaves appeared as if out of nowhere. She gave them instructions, and a few minutes later, they returned with a golden bowl filled with aromatic water. Per her orders, the vessel was placed on the floor at the demigod's feet. Their task done, the slaves disappeared as quickly and quietly as they had materialized, leaving the two alone once more.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti tested the water's temperature with her hands. Satisfied that it would not burn the skin of a god, she lifted his regal feet with her delicate hands and, one at a time, put them into the golden basin.

"What is in there?" Erik/Horus asked as he wiggled his toes around in the water. "What is that I feel?"

"It's a special potion," she said flirtatiously, wondering how a man purporting to be a god could miss the distinct aroma of cucumbers and sea salt she'd had the slaves put in the bowl. She cupped her hands and dipped them into the water, allowing it to drizzle over his legs. Then, with agile fingers, she began to massage his legs, kneading upwards, always upwards. "This will enhance my lord's pleasure," she said, keeping her voice low.

Erik/Horus shifted in the chair. His body stirred to life, hard and wanting, the kilt he wore revealing more than it concealed. "I am under your spell," he said, allowing her to see the effect she was having on him.

She arched an eyebrow. "Does this feel good, Master? Or would you prefer it...harder?" She licked her lips slowly, provocatively, and rose from her kneeling position, allowing the tops of her breasts to spill out over the bodice of her dress. She spied the low footstool next to the throne and sat on it. Tapping one of his legs lightly, she lifted his foot from the water and propped it on a folded towel on the edge of the basin, stroking it.

"What are you doing now?" he asked breathlessly.

"Massaging your foot, O Noble One. Even a god enjoys a foot rub."

"Oh," he moaned softly. "Oh!" he said a bit louder when she began to gently pull each toe after rubbing the ball of his foot. She pressed one of her thumbs atop the other, and pushed into the arch of his foot, leaning into it to let her weight work for her. He squirmed and gritted his teeth.

She stopped abruptly, stifling a laugh. "Is it possible that the Great God is ticklish?"

"The Living God is not ticklish," he said a little too loudly. Then he chuckled and added, "Perhaps the Perfect One should use a lighter touch, one more befitting a Queen of Egypt."

She nodded. "I'll be gentle," she promised, as she continued to massage his foot.

"Not too gentle, I hope."

With a pat to the top of his foot, she placed it in the basin and withdrew the other one. Erik/Horus relaxed and released a sigh of contentment. "A god could get used to this, you know."

"Who would have suspected the gods of fantasizing about a pedicure? O Lord of the Two Lands, is it possible that you have some sort of...foot fetish?"

"Less chatter, woman, and more...of what you are doing," he chuckled, and then settled back in his throne. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling as she repeated the massage on his other foot, and he grasped the chair arms when she tickled him, refusing to laugh aloud. But then she did something she hadn't done before. She licked the top of his big toe and proceeded to kiss it.

He groaned with deepening satisfaction as she dragged her lips slowly across the top of his toes, lingering on the biggest. Her eyes met his as she opened her mouth and took the toe between her teeth ever so lightly before drawing it into her mouth. He closed his eyes as she suckled his toe, and held his breath when she kissed the top of his foot.

She moved upwards then, and put her hands on his bare chest. She felt with pleasure his nipples harden beneath her palms, and smiled when he arched his back, pushing against her. "That's it," she whispered. "Show me what the Great God wants. Tell me," she urged.

He moaned and whispered huskily, "Come here, Plaything of Horus."

Swiftly, he drew her to him and before she knew it, found herself sitting in his lap. He pulled her face to his and, finding her lips, kissed her deeply and passionately. He opened his mouth and tasted her hungrily, showering her with kisses, from her swanlike neck to the tops of her milk-white breasts, while his hands tugged the straps of her gown, pushing them down past her shoulders. His tongue tasted her soft, perfumed skin, and he could feel her shiver with delight and expectation.

"You like?" he teased. She murmured her wordless assent as his hands slid beneath the fabric of her dress. "We don't need this," he said and deftly tore the gown away, admiring the beauty of her. "It only gets in the way." He continued his exploration of her body, and heard her groan with pleasure when he suckled her.

Elizabeth/Nefertiti responded in kind to Erik/Horus's ministrations, reveling in her newfound freedom from inhibitions. Her fingers danced upon his body and soon found their way under the hem of his kilt. Her hands slipped further up and explored this uncharted territory.

"We don't need this, either," she said, finding the knot that held the garment in place and untying it.

An urgent knocking on the door interrupted them.

"Your majesties, it is Taita. Something urgent has come up."

"I'll say it has," Elizabeth/Nefertiti whispered into Erik/Horus's ear.

The demigod grinned impishly. "Go away!" Erik/Horus ordered.

"Yes, go away!" Elizabeth/Nefertiti shouted.

The urgent knocking continued. "But Sitt..."

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth bolted upright in her bed and struggled with the sheet that had become tangled and twisted around her. It was still dark, and it took her a moment to remember she was in her cabin. With shaking hands, she freed herself at last from the entrapping bed linens and sat on the edge of her bed, running her fingers through sweat-drenched hair.

"Are you all right, Sitt?" It was Safa.

_So,_ Elizabeth thought with a grimace, _at least the knocking was real, even if the rest of the dream was pure fantasy._

She stood up on unsteady feet and made her way to the dresser. There she found the lamp and lit it. She glared at the sketchbook and the artifact that were laying innocently where she'd placed them before going to bed, right next to Leo's picture.

"This is all _your_ fault," she accused the inanimate objects.

"Sitt! Answer me," Safa called out, her voice filled with worry. "Are you all right? May I come in?"

"Yes," Elizabeth forced herself to say firmly. "I'm all right." She opened the door and invited the young girl into the room. She sat back on the edge of the bed while Safa stood, concern written all over her dark face.

"I heard you moaning, Sitt, and thought you were ill. You did not look well at supper, and I feared the _haboob_ had sent you bad dreams."

Elizabeth could not trust her voice to answer, as her mind was still suffering from the disorienting after-effects of the dream. "I…I…" she croaked. "What time is it?"

"Night time, Sitt." Safa came over sat next to her on the bed and put her hand to Elizabeth's forehead. "You are feverish," she said, dismayed.

Elizabeth gathered her wits about her at last. "I shall be fine," she said somewhat sheepishly. "I am terribly sorry if I disturbed you. It was…it was only a dream."

The young girl was all concern. "Are you sure you are not ill? Shall I stay with you? I can sleep there, in the chair. That way, if you have another bad dream, I shall wake you and chase it away."

Elizabeth gave Safa a crooked smile. "Yes, Safa. Stay here tonight and chase away my bad dreams."

-0-

When Elizabeth woke the following morning, she felt rested if not completely refreshed. The dream was only that, she told herself – a dream. An unfortunate incident, no doubt brought on by indigestion after yesterday's turmoil during the sandstorm. She looked around her very ordinary and plain room as if to reassure herself of where she was, and smiled when she saw Safa sleeping in the chair.

"Safa, dear, it's time to wake up," she said, gently shaking the girl's shoulder.

The dark-skinned girl opened bleary eyes and grinned back at the English woman. "Did you sleep well? No more bad dreams?"

Elizabeth smiled back. "No. No more bad dreams. Thank you."

There was a knock at the door.

"Sitt? Are you awake?" It was Ra'id. "Shall I bring you your breakfast?"

The two women smiled at each other. It seemed that Elizabeth's cabin was a very busy place of late.

"I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes," Elizabeth called out to him.

Safa yawned and stretched. "I suppose I should get up and see if that lazybones of a brother wants something to eat," she said, rising from the chair. Excusing herself, the young girl left the room and winked at Ra'id when she sauntered past him in the hallway and was pleased when she saw him grin back at her.

_He may be an older man, but he is very pleasing to the eye,_ she thought. _A girl could do a lot worse than to snare one such as him. What is it Auntie is always saying? Something about it being better to have an older man put you on a pedestal than to have a younger man work you to death?_

-0-

Once out of bed, Elizabeth quickly washed and dressed. She donned a skirt -- one of her numerous sensible skirts – and an equally sensible blouse. She had considered wearing the split skirt that Mr. Rien had given her, but decided to keep it for when they arrived at Amarna. No doubt, it would be more useful on land than aboard the _dahabeeyah_.

As she finished tidying the room, she heard Ra'id knock once again at the door. She opened it for him, helping relieve him of the fruit and tea he'd brought with him. Having a communal meal with the other passengers was fine for supper, but Elizabeth preferred breakfast in the luxury of her own cabin.

"I notice that you and A'aqil have been rather chummy during our voyage," she remarked. "Have you learned anything more about Mr. Rien?"

Ra'id shrugged. "Not much more than we already knew. He came to Luxor five years ago, but before that? No one knows. He never talks about his past. I have learned, however, that his man A'aqil is a scamp."

Elizabeth nodded in agreement, as she poured herself a cup of hot tea and sweetened it with honey. "Yes, I got the same impression."

"Not really a bad scamp," Ra'id added. "A good scamp."

Elizabeth pulled a face. "Is there such a thing?"

-0-0-0-

"I have brought you your breakfast, Master," A'aqil said entering Erik's room, bringing with him a small tray of flat bread, fruit and tea.

"Why are you doing this?" Erik asked worriedly, indicating the tray. "Is there something wrong with Safa?" It was Safa who normally brought him his breakfast.

A'aqil sat down and made himself at home and munched on some dates. "My sister is fine, only tired. Apparently Mrs. Brackenstall had a bad night."

Erik frowned. "Is she ill?"

"No, not at all. It seems the _haboob_ filled her mind with bad dreams. Safa was awakened by her moans. The walls are rather thin," he added by way of explanation. "My sister demonstrates great concern when it comes to the Englishwoman, and ended up spending the night with her, to ensure that no more nightmares disturbed her sleep."

"How sweet," Erik mumbled, helping himself to another piece of bread.

"Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice, Master?"

"Me? Sarcastic? Whatever gave you that foolish notion?"

A'aqil only smiled and the two continued their small breakfast, discussing such inconsequential things as the weather. From the time fate had thrown the two of them together, A'aqil was the only person Erik allowed to see his face for the simple reason that the Nubian had seen him at his worst, accepting his disfigurement without a qualm. Being able to let his guard down, if only for these brief periods of time, was a feeling Erik cherished, but he never made a fuss about it in front of A'aqil. It was simply acknowledged between the two of them, nothing more, and nothing less.

Erik poured a second cup of lukewarm tea. "I notice you and Ra'id have been quite friendly on this trip. Have you been able to learn anything more about Mr. and Mrs. Brackenstall?"

"Not much more than we already know. They met five years ago in Luxor. Ra'id called it a _haboob_ engagement, whatever that is supposed to mean."

Erik scrunched his face. "What the hell is a '_haboob_ engagement'?"

"You know – one that is very fast…and blustery."

Erik chuckled as the meaning dawned on him. "You mean a 'whirlwind romance.'"

A'aqil held out his hands in a gesture of confusion. "Isn't that what a _haboob_ is?"

"I suppose so."

A'aqil continued. "According to Ra'id, the husband's family was not too pleased. Nothing against the lady personally, only that marrying her was beneath the family's station."

Erik gave a snort. "How typically British."

The Nubian cocked an eyebrow at his master. "I don't think the British are the only ones to have such overblown opinions of themselves."

"Anything else?"

"Apparently Mr. Leo is always looking for a way to a quick fortune. He likes money, but does not know how to manage it wisely."

"That would tie in with what we've learned so far, with this wild goose chase of a search for hidden treasure."

A'aqil frowned. "Ra'id says the husband is something of a rogue. A good rogue, but still a rogue."

"Well, in that case, we all ought to fit right in together."

Their morning repast over, A'aqil collected the dishes and went to leave the room.

"Did you happen to see my sketchbook while you were wandering about this morning?" Erik asked. "I left it up on the observation deck when the storm blew in."

A'aqil shook his head. "Nothing that was not tied down could have survived the _haboob_."

"I suppose you're right. No doubt, it's at the bottom of the Nile," said Erik. "Oh well, nothing of any consequence. I have another with me."

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth looked at the sketchbook. She knew she had to return it. Picking it up, she tucked it under her arm and exited her cabin, where she all but ran into Erik in the hallway. He immediately spied the book she was carrying.

"Oh, then it didn't blow away," he said with a mixture of surprise and relief.

"Yes, I…that is, when the storm came up and you dashed off to help with the boat, I grabbed it and put it in my room for safekeeping." She looked at the man standing before, dressed as he had been yesterday in a combination of European and Arabic clothing, and found herself wondering if underneath, he looked anything at all like he did in her dream.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Brackenstall?" Erik asked.

_Blast! _she thought, feeling the corridor grow warm. "Thank you. Yes, I'm perfectly fine."

"I'm not so sure. Your face is flushed."

Elizabeth fanned herself with her hand, trying to laugh off her discomfiture. "It must be the heat."

"Yes, the heat," Erik repeated, not sure what to make of the woman. Whatever was troubling her, he was certain it wasn't the heat.

"Here," she said, handing him the sketchbook. "This is yours."

"That was very kind of you. There are a number of landscapes I am particularly fond of in there," he said. "I thought perhaps I would have to recreate them from memory."

He nodded politely to her, and then remembered the drawings of Christine -- and the scenes from _Don Juan Triumphant_. They were probably a little more risqué than a proper Englishwoman such as Elizabeth Brackenstall was accustomed to. He felt the smile freeze on his face, and was glad she couldn't not see it. "About the sketchbook…" Erik started to say, the situation having suddenly grown quite awkward. "I want to apologize…"

"Apologize?" she asked, a little too quickly. "For what?"

Erik noticed that not only was her face flushed, but her neck was turning a delicate shade of pink.

_So, that's what this is all about – the sketchbook!_

"Did you…happen to look through it?" he asked. "The sketchbook, I mean."

Elizabeth blanched at his question. "I'm…I'm not in the habit of looking through other people's personal belongings," she replied, without actually answering his question.

"Yes. I see."

He saw, all right. One look at her face was enough to tell him that, though she didn't want to admit it, she had seen something that upset her. And now she was staring at him, her expression all but demanding an explanation from him.

"I was concerned that…well, there are some sketches you might have considered to be…inappropriate." Erik groaned inwardly. _Go ahead! Make yourself sound like a miscreant of the first order._ "What I mean is…not that they are anything…"

Elizabeth interrupted him. If it weren't for the blush on her face, he would never have guessed that she was as uncomfortable about the sketchbook as he was. "There is no need to apologize," she reassured him, turning prim and proper. "Whatever you wish to draw is your own business." She stiffened her back, turned around, and forced herself to walk, not run, away.

_Besides, _she thought as she retreated to the solitude of her room where she could recover from this ordeal, _I'm the one who's having erotic dreams about you, which I suspect tops anything in your sketchbook. At least you drew me with my clothes on._

-0-0-0-

Erik was back in his own cabin. He opened the trunk and was going to put the sketchbook away, but before doing so, he looked inside to reassure himself that there had been nothing of too risqué a nature in it. That was when he saw what Elizabeth must have seen -- if she had looked inside. He could not believe what he had done, that through the series of pictures of his opera, Christine's features had changed until at last, it was Elizabeth Brackenstall he was holding in his arms.

Erik was dumfounded. He had no recollection of ever doing this. He put his fingers to his forehead and tried to massage away the headache he felt coming on. Changing the faces in the drawing had been completely unconscious on his part. But what had brought this on, and why? No wonder Elizabeth Brackenstall had blushed so furiously.

There was only one thing to do, he decided. He would go to her and apologize immediately. But he changed his mind before he ever left his cabin. She had implied that she never looked at the sketchbook, and he would accept her word – even if she had blushed. If he brought the subject up, it would only exacerbate the situation.

As for why he had changes faces in the drawings? The reason was quite simple. The two of them were in close proximity on the _Eye of Horus_. The boat was big, but not that big. They were always running into one another. It was impossible not to. Yes, that was it. Nothing more serious than a slip of the pen. A bit of artistic license.

Having decided that the best thing to do was – nothing, Erik put the book away.

The rest of the trip, the two of them did their best to avoid being left alone together, and when that could not be avoided, both remained polite, but reserved, towards one another.

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note:** I confess to stealing a couple names from other books and used them in this chapter. Taita is a recurring character in a series of novels by Wilbur Smith, set in Egypt (ancient and modern), while Lady Thu appeared as the main character in two of Paulene Gedge's Ancient Egyptian novels, _Lady of the Reeds_ and _House of Illusions_. It was my way of paying homage to two authors whose books I love.


	14. Arrival at Amarna

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 14  
Arrival at Amarna**

_Many thanks to Lizzy, who not only beta'd this chapter, but also helped with research on Arabian horses and helped write some of the dialogue._

~ * ~

_People bring about their own undoing through their tongues.  
_**~Ancient Egyptian Proverb  
Written on the walls of the temples at Karnak**

The arrival at Amarna could not come soon enough as far as Elizabeth was concerned. The tension between Rien and her had grown over the last two days until it was almost unbearable, and she knew it was all her fault.

The man's behavior had been exemplary towards her, and if he had been distant at times, it was surely in response to her own confused state of mind. One thing she knew for certain, that her feelings towards the enigmatic Erik Rien had nothing to do with his sketchbook.

There had been nothing vulgar or inflammatory about the pictures she'd found herself in. Maybe a little passionate, but in a stagy, unreal sort of way.

_Like my dream?_

Included among the Don Juan-looking pictures—_Now why did Don Juan come to mind?_—were sketches of ballerinas in tutus and other scenes indicating that these drawings were of some theatrical production, leading her to suspect that Rien had a passion for the stage. She should have been flattered that he had thought her attractive enough to include in his sketches.

Several times, she had tried to make amends for her boorish behavior, but each time her own stiff-necked pride caused her to take offence at some innocuous comment of Rien's. She chastened herself for being peevish, for building mountains out of molehills as her father used to say, knowing that her actions only made the situation more difficult than it had to be.

It certainly did not help, however, that Rien was such a difficult man to read. There were times when he could be arrogant and rude. Then, without warning, his mood would change and he would be a completely different person, exhibiting charm and warmth. More than once, she suspected that his sudden changes in mood had a lot to do with his face. If only he would realize his appearance made no difference to her. He was helping her find her husband, and for that, she was immensely grateful.

He hadn't needed to arrange for her to accompany him in his search for Leo. After the break-in at his shop, he could just as easily have gone off on his own. Probably would have made the trip quicker, too, and less expensive, but he had included her, regardless of what he thought of her.

"What would you do, if someone you loved were missing?" she had asked Erik early on, remembering a conversation they'd had when he'd questioned her need to make the trek instead of letting him handle matters for the both of them. His response had surprised her.

"I wouldn't rest until I found her," he'd said.

"Then you understand."

For a few moments, he appeared to be somewhere else. "More than you can imagine," he said, a faraway look in his sea-green eyes. He'd said nothing more, leaving her to wonder if in his past, he had lost someone he loved as much as she loved Leo.

Elizabeth looked out the window of her cabin. They would be docking soon, and she hurried, wanting to finish packing her meager belongings and get her luggage ready before they disembarked. She picked up Leo's photograph and looked at it one last time, willing it to tell her the truth, before tucking it into her reticule. Whatever her husband was involved in, he had unwittingly dragged all of them into it.

She took one last look around the cabin. Satisfied that everything was where it belonged, she checked herself one last time in the mirror and frowned. Her reflection showed the same practical, no-nonsense woman staring back at her, but today she decided to wear the split skirt Rien had given her. There was a good chance that they would be riding pack animals later today, and the split skirt would be preferable to her sensible, more traditional ones. Once more, she grumbled to herself about men making up senseless rules when it came to what was acceptable for a woman to wear and what was not.

_It would be better yet if I could wear trousers like a man. I'd like to see a man wear all those layers of undergarments, with corsets tied so tight that a person can hardly breathe!_

She looked once again in the mirror, hoping the way she was dressed would meet with Rien's approval. Perhaps this would break the ice between them, help bring them back to that familiarity that had begun to form between them before the storm had struck.

_No, it hadn't been the storm, it had been that blasted dream. By god, why does there have to be this difficulty between us?_

It was all her fault! She looked down at her reticule. No, it was Leo's.

Blast you, Leonidas Brackenstall! When I find you, I'll tan your hide…after I throw my arms around you and tell you how much I've worried about you!

~ * ~

Erik stood on deck as the _Eye of Horus_ docked at the village that was their final destination, Tell el-Amarna.

Elizabeth joined him. He didn't say anything, but she could tell by the expression of his eyes that he approved of how she was dressed. That made her smile. She pointed to the mud brick village.

"The name Amarna comes from the Beni Amran, nomadic tribesmen who came from the Eastern Desert and settled here along the Nile," she said, trying to break the ice and falling back onto what she deemed a safe subject – the history of the land. "The full name of the village is Tell el-Amarna, but we Europeans have a habit of shortening names and words that are foreign to us. Its real name is Et Til el-Amarna. Tell el-Amarna makes no sense to the locals as there were no tells marking the location of the ancient site."

"What do you mean, no 'tells'?" Erik asked, genuinely interested.

"A tell is a mound such as those found here in the Middle East. They are artificial mounds, made up of the stratified remains of a succession of settlements," she explained.

"You've been here before," Erik said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I visited Amarna many years ago with my father. Have you? Been here before, that is?"

"No, tell me about it. I probably should have asked sooner, but how big an area must we explore when we look for your husband?"

"The ancient city of Akh-et-aten is spread out. It runs nearly eight miles from north to south, and is nearly fifteen to the cliffs over there in the distance, though much of it is still unexplored. Those cliffs are where we will find the tombs." To herself, she added, "Where we will probably find Leo."

Erik nodded. "This is good to know," he said, then resumed his silence.

Reïs Hassan approached Erik. "When we have finished here, the Eye of Horus will continue downriver to Cairo. Perhaps pick up some Europeans wanting to see Luxor. I will stop here on the return trip and see if your party is still in the area and if you need a ride back home."

Erik nodded. "That sounds agreeable. About how long do you think it will be before you come back here to Amarna?"

Hassan made some quick calculations. "Cairo is about 190 miles north of here. I cannot say for certain, but would guess that I can be back here in about two weeks."

~ * ~

A welcoming party awaited them at the river's edge. The people were poor and tourists meant money. Men, women and children had all gathered on the small wooden pier, shouting as they vied with each other to get the attention of the travelers. Men offered to hire themselves out as guides and as guards – "Bandits infest the hills, Sitt!" Women were showing off assorted goods for sale, while the children begged for sweets and baksheesh.

While the men bargained for animals and supplies, Elizabeth decided to take a look around with Safa tagging along at her side. The first thing that struck her was how poor it looked—squalid, dreary and depressing—looking as though it had been dropped in the midst of a plowed field. Streets were trodden lanes of mud and dust, and the houses looked like windowless prisons. Overhead rotting rafters of palm wood, covered with bits of tattered cloth, served as roofs. This was not at all the way she remembered it. But that, she reminded herself, had been through the eyes of a child. No doubt, it had always been poor; she simply had not noticed it all those years ago.

In the middle of the village was a small market with little cupboard-like shops. Merchants sat cross-legged by their goods. Elizabeth passed native kitchens and savored the aroma of kebobs and lentil soup as she made their way through elbowing, clamorous crowds of donkeys, camels, street-cries, chatter, dust, flies, fleas, and dogs, all reminiscent of the poorer parts of Luxor.

Many of the villagers appraised her with sullen, suspicious expressions. They liked the money these tourists brought with them, but did not care for their heathen ways. The men's expressions were half-stealthy and insolent. The women were bold and fierce. The children were filthy, sickly, stunted and stolid. All were shabbily clothed and of dubious cleanliness. Even Safa was struck by the poverty.

"In my village, we may have been poor, but we were clean," she said. "Look. Do you see how many of them suffer from eye trouble and even blindness?"

"It is a result of their ignorance and poor education," Elizabeth replied sadly. "Lack of hygiene and the flies are often the cause." She shivered as a chill went down her spine.

Safa noticed. "Is everything all right, Sitt?"

"I don't know. There's something about this place that has me on edge." Elizabeth shook her head as if to clear it of cobwebs. She forced herself to smile. "I suppose it is that we were nearing the explanation of the great mystery that had been plaguing me—the disappearance of my husband." The two women continued walking through the market, making a few small purchases. "Where do we start?" she said to herself, not expecting an answer.

"You mean you have no ideas? Have you given no thought of what we're to do once we arrived at this godforsaken place?"

Too late, she realized that Rien had come up behind her and misunderstood her words. "Of course I have an idea," she snapped back before she could stop herself, and immediately regretted it. Too late to recall her words, she tried to soften them. "I was simply thinking out loud. My husband is looking for tomb treasure, ergo, we look for him among the tombs."

"Fine. Then that is where we will go. To the tombs. Where are they? You mentioned the cliffs earlier." He gestured in their direction.

"It's not as easy as that," Elizabeth cautioned. "We don't know if Leo is searching in the north tombs, or the royal tombs, or the south tombs."

Erik let out an exasperated sigh. "You mean to tell me there's more than one necropolis?"

"Uhm…yes."

Safa remained silent during their exchange, fighting to keep the smirk off her face.

Erik made a quick decision. "Then we check them all. Which group is closest?"

"The southern ones," said Elizabeth.

"How far?"

"An hour, maybe two. The royal tombs are further south, several miles. And the north tombs are…farther yet."

Erik groaned. "We could end up searching for days! Before we run off on a wild goose chase, we might ask the locals if any of them remember seeing your husband."

Elizabeth bit back the smart reply that was on the tip of her tongue when she was interrupted by an elderly woman, a withered, one-eyed hag who bore a striking resemblance to a reanimated mummy.

"I will tell the Sitt her fortune," the old woman said in Arabic. She shook an old hankie full of shells, pebbles and broken pieces of pottery and glass. "I use these to see into the future." The woman gestured for Elizabeth to sit on the ground in the shade. "Here. You sit here. I will tell your fortune," she repeated.

"Oh!" cried Safa with pleasure. "A fortune teller!" She grabbed Elizabeth by the arm. "Come, Sitt. We must have our fortunes told."

Elizabeth hesitated.

"The sooner you let her tell your future, the sooner she'll stop pestering us and we can get out of here," Erik said. "Besides, it doesn't look like she's had a good meal in days. With the few coins you give her, she'll be able to afford some decent food."

Knowing when she was beaten, Elizabeth relented.

Sitting on the ground, the old woman shook the hankie and scattered the contents out before her. She studied them intently before speaking. "You have lost a friend who is far away, and there is another who is thinking of you."

"Do you suppose she means your husband?" Safa whispered to Elizabeth, who made a face. "But if she does, then who is the other friend?"

"Her words can refer to anyone," Erik said in English. "That's how fortunetelling works, by making the 'fortunes' so vague that they can fit almost any situation."

Elizabeth gave him an arch look. "You sound like you've had experience with this sort of thing."

Erik didn't respond.

"Dark days approach, but in the end, there will be good news for you," the crone continued. "Great treasure awaits you."

"That must be the gold we're going to find," Erik said under his breath.

Safa turned and scolded him. "Be quiet, Master. Let the old grandmother speak."

Thoroughly chastened, Erik kept quiet.

The woman concluded her prognostication. "You will soon learn something that will bring you great pain, but later, there will be more to make you glad. Soon, you will unexpectedly meet one whom you dearly love."

_One whom you dearly love_, Elizabeth thought. _She must mean Leo._ She opened her reticule and placed a few coins in the arthritic hand. Then she pulled out Leo's picture. "Have you seen this man recently?"

The old woman took the picture and held it close to her one good eye. She stared intently at it for many seconds before returning it, shaking her head. "I have not, but maybe others did. A few weeks ago, I heard some of the men talking about strangers going to the cliffs. Ask around the village. Perhaps some baksheesh will refresh their memories."

All this mumbo-jumbo about fortunetelling was getting on Erik's nerves. It reminded him too much of his own past, when he lived with the Gypsies. "That's it," he said abruptly, escorting the women away.

"I want to have my fortune told," pouted Safa.

"The show's over. I left A'aqil and Ra'id to take care of provisions and secure pack animals. We'll make camp outside the village. It will be…cleaner."

Safa let her displeasure be known. "But…I want to know what the grandmother has to say about me. I want to know if I will find a husband, and soon. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

Erik snorted. "How old are you? All of seventeen?"

"I am seventeen, going on eighteen. Almost an old maid, a spinster."

She sniffed back tears, but whether they were real or simulated, Erik couldn't tell. Hating to see the young girl so upset, he relented. "On our way back, we'll stop and let the old hag tell your fortune."

Her face brightened and she clapped her hands together in glee. "Thank you, Master!" Then she frowned. "But what if she's—Allah forbid—dead by then? She's not getting any younger either, you know."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Give me your hand," he demanded.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to tell you your fortune."

Safa smiled and placed her hand in his.

He looked down and stared at her palm, making a few gestures for effect. "You will marry a fine man with many horses. But not until you are at least nineteen."

"Nineteen!" she howled, quickly pulling her hand away. "Master, you are making fun of me."

Erik scowled at her in mock indignation. "Hurry. We're losing the light. If we don't get underway soon, we will have to spend the night in this…this stinking cesspool."

They rejoined A'aqil and Ra'id, who had the pack animals ready. From here, they would head for the cliffs and find a suitable campsite. The next day, they would start their search in earnest, after everyone had a good night's sleep.

"Were you able to learn anything?" Erik asked the men.

Ra'id nodded. "Possibly. About two weeks ago, maybe three, a European came here. He was traveling with an Egyptian, a big man." He held out his arms to indicate a robust figure. "The villagers said they both looked to be wealthy."

Elizabeth perked up at the news. "Did they learn their names?"

A'aqil frowned. "Ra'id and I asked all around. No one could say who they were."

"Where did they go?" Erik asked.

"Again, no one knows for sure," said Ra'id. "The two men were very secretive, did not say why they came. They purchased a few supplies and were last seen in the area around the southern tombs."

Erik looked at Elizabeth. This confirmed their suspicions that Leo was nearby. "Then that is where we shall go."

~ * ~

Elizabeth fumed as she looked at the animal she was to ride. She turned to Ra'id. "Why did you choose horses?"

Erik glared back at her. "I'm the one who ordered the horses, Madame. Have you any idea how stubborn and difficult to control jackasses are?"

"Stubborn they may be, but they are much sturdier than horses, and make excellent pack animals."

He exhaled audibly. "We are not going into the vast waste land, Madame. We are only going a few miles—to the cliffs and the tombs—only a couple of hours' ride back to the village. But if it will ease your mind, however, I have also hired several asses to carry our supplies. If I had thought you had such strong opinions on the matter, I would have consulted you regarding my selections."

Elizabeth tried to ameliorate the situation that once again she had inadvertently made thorny. "I'm sure you did the best you could. It's just that…"

He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. "Go on. I'm listening."

From behind, there was snickering.

"Well, as you know, I have experience in these sorts of matters. I've arranged expeditions for my husband and myself in the past."

"Which may be exactly why he didn't consult you on the last one," Erik groused.

There was more snickering. Erik turned around and saw Safa covering her mouth, while A'aqil and Ra'id were pictures of innocence.

Elizabeth frowned. "That was a low blow. I would have expected better, coming from you."

Erik scoffed. "Why? You don't value my opinion or my judgment. You've said as much regarding my choice of beasts of burden!"

"I don't know what you have against jackasses," she said, her face reddened with anger. "They suit you perfectly."

"A'aqil!" Erik shouted.

The Nubian stepped forward. "Yes, Master?"

"Bring the riding mule forward. I'm sure the Sitt would prefer it to the gelding, the one that was meant for a discriminating rider."

Elizabeth clenched and unclenched her fists. "Why, you…you…and what are you planning to ride? That stallion?" She pointed at the chestnut Arabian being readied. "He looks as though he's been fed on nothing but oats and corn for the past month."

Erik studied the horse critically. "He's merely spirited."

"He's full of gas," Elizabeth said disdainfully. "You'll find yourself walking if you aren't careful."

"Does she mean the horse is full of hot air?" Safa asked her brother.

A'aqil put his fingers to his lips. "Hush, little sister. It is not right for us humble servants to interrupt such a lofty discussion."

Safa snorted.

"Arabians are noble horses, Sitt," Ra'id interjected. "Like many of my people, I have an appreciation for fine horseflesh. There is a story told among the Bedu. Allah created the Arabian horses from the four winds. From the North Wind, he gave them spirit, and from the South, strength. From the East Wind came speed, and the West, intelligence. As Allah did thus, he exclaimed, 'I create thee, Oh Arabian. To thy forelock, I bind Victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil, and a Treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the Glories of the Earth and give thee flight without wings.'"

A'aqil agreed and added, "It is well known that the great King Solomon thought highly of Arabians. They are a sturdy lot and can be ridden many more miles than any other breed and do so with great vigor. It is said that when the Banu Azd, an ancient Arabic tribe, came to Solomon to pay tribute, he gave them his renowned stallion, Zad el-Rabeh—which means 'Gift to the Rider.' This was a horse of legend," he said with hand gesturing skyward to emphasize his words. "This horse was faster than the zebra and the gazelle. In every hunt, he was successful, and he became a sire of celebrated proportions."

Ra'id continued, proudly extolling the horse's virtues. "Look at that animal, Sitt. Can you not see that it is noble, intelligent and affectionate?" At that moment, the horse snorted and nodded its head, as if it knew it was the topic of conversation. "Note his imposing presence—the exquisite head and high tail carriage. This is a well-tempered, courageous, and vigorous animal."

Elizabeth's mouth curled into a sneer. The horse did not strike her as either noble or well-tempered. "That hardly looks like a descendant of the celebrated Zad el-Rabeh."

Erik ignored the two men and gave his full attention to Elizabeth. He was not about to give in. "I do not need a history lesson. I've made my decision. You may ride the mule."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. "I didn't realize you were my lord and master."

Safa jabbed her brother in the ribs. "Shouldn't one of us try to put a stop to this? If they keep this up, we'll be here all day!"

A'aqil ignored his sister and continued enjoying the spectacle.

"Then walk if you prefer!" Erik snapped. "I don't really care one way or another." He turned to tighten the saddle on his horse.

"Men!" Elizabeth said in exasperation.

"Women!" Erik said, equally annoyed.

A'aqil turned to Ra'id. "Is your mistress always this way?"

"Only when men try to control her."

Safa jumped in, feeling it her duty to defend Elizabeth. "What do you mean, control her? Are you implying that the Sitt is being difficult?"

Ra'id frowned. "Is your master always bull-headed?" he asked.

A'aqil chuckled and smiled. "Only when he doesn't get his own way."

Ra'id nodded sagely. "They have much in common, then." He shook his head, covering his mouth with his hand to hide the amusement on his face.

"It is much like watching a boat with two captains. Sooner or later, the boat will sink because each wants his own way."

"Hmm…I wonder," mused Ra'id. "Are all Europeans like this?"

"Stop ignoring me!" Safa scolded. "What do you mean, are all Europeans like this?"

"He means," said her brother, "that of everyone here, Ra'id and I have the most experience in planning desert journeys, and yet neither of them asked us our opinions in the matter of transport."

"Be sure to get plenty of water!" Ra'id said, imitating Elizabeth. "We'll need a gallon per day per person, along with whatever you think is appropriate for the animals." He snorted. "As if I don't already know this!"

A'aqil added, doing an equally good imitation of Erik, "I will not ride an ass. They look ridiculous. Can you imagine me on one?" He chortled. "As a matter of fact, I can!"

"Hush, both of you!" Safa pointed to Erik and Elizabeth, who were listening to every word being said, and judging from their pinched expressions, they didn't appreciate it one bit.

Ra'id lowered his head, wishing the sand would open and swallow him. "I…uh…think I will go check on the water," he said sheepishly, and hurried off in the direction of the well.

A'aqil snickered. "I'll check my ass." Then he ran off in the direction of the animals.

Safa threw her arms in the air in disgust. "Can anyone tell me what just happened?"

Erik sputtered. "I…uh…I…"

"Oh, don't bother," Elizabeth cut him off. "You said what you meant. You always do." She sat down on a rocky outcropping, huffing and puffing.

"Watch out!" Erik shouted in alarm.

"What is it this time?" she said. "Is there a snake? Oh, my! I am so afraid! Save the poor helpless Englishwoman from a…oh!" At the last moment, she saw the scorpion and quickly brushed it aside with the brim of her hat.

Erik smirked. "Perhaps the next time, you'll look before you sit."

~ * ~

**Notes, Historic and Otherwise:**

To give an idea of the distances involved, the site of the ancient city of Akh-et-Aten is approximately 20-25 km (12-15 miles) across the valley (from the Nile to the hills and cliffs from which the tombs were cut) and approx. 13 km (8 mi) from north to south.

Though the village of Tell el-Amarna really exists, I have no idea if it was as poor as I've described. Call it artistic license.

The Western term Bedouin is actually a double plural; in the Arabic language, the people we know as Bedouin refer to themselves as "Bedu."

Banu Azd = an ancient Arabic tribe from the region of modern day Yemen.

Zad el-Rabeh = Gift to the Rider


	15. The Ride to the Cliffs

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Chapter 15  
****The Ride to the Cliffs**

_"After passing el Hawata, one comes upon a vast sandy plain surrounded on three sides by the Arabian mountains, and to the west by the Nile, most similar to the gulf where Antinoöpolis was located. Here once stood a very large Egyptian city, which, to date, had never attracted the attention of travellers. The first time I saw it, I was extremely surprised to see such a huge mass of ruins, no less than two thousand two hundred meters long, one thousand wide. Located near the Nile, where the stretch of land is particularly narrow, it nonetheless has never appeared on any map. I immediately mapped it out and made sketches of its few remaining parts. _

"_Unfortunately, most of the constructions have been razed, so that only their foundations remain to be seen. However, one still finds a number of brick houses with their supporting walls, a large gate and its enclosure wall, two enormous buildings clearly revealing their plans, a forty-eight-meter-wide street that ran lengthwise, and traces of many city streets (...) I asked the inhabitants of the nearby villages for the name of these ruins, but no one could say."_

**~Edmé Jomard, **_**Description de l'Egypte**_

~ * ~

Erik was troubled, and tried to understand why, when the truth hit him. Every step that took them closer to finding Leonidas Brackenstall was another step closer to losing Elizabeth. No, it wasn't that he was in love with her, but…he found he enjoyed her company, and that would never do!

_Why am I barking at her? Could it be that I resent the fact that she's married? That once we find her husband, I'll have lost one of the few friends I have in the world?_

He knew he was being harsh with Elizabeth, but he had seen the look in her eyes when she thought he wasn't watching. He had been baffled by that look. He had seen similar looks in the eyes of women who were flirting with men—backstage at the opera house, at the court of the Shah of Persia, and everywhere else he'd traveled. But why would she look at him in this way? The only conclusion he could draw was that he was seeing it either because he wished it to be true, or because she felt some perverse attraction towards him. It would not be the first time a pretty woman had wanted to see to the face behind the mask, and tried to charm him into dropping his guard.

_This will never do! She is a married woman._

Even if she were not, there could never be anything between them. He had destroyed his chance at love, and besides, once she saw what he really looked like, what woman could possibly want him? But it was not only his face. What was it Christine had said? That it was in his soul that the true distortion laid.

So, it was better if Elizabeth thought him rude and arrogant. If she thought of him in this manner, there would be no painful farewells when this adventure was over.

-0-0-0-

Safa squirmed as she rode the donkey. Every movement, every bump, every jolt only added to her discomfort. She looked around disconsolately at the flat, open landscape. Unable to remain quiet, she finally said, "Have we arrived yet?"

Erik gestured to the bleak countryside. "Does it look as though we've arrived?"

The Nubian girl struck out her lower lip in a pout. "When _will_ we be there?"

"We'll be there when we get there," Erik said, exasperated.

"What is that supposed to mean? An hour? Longer?"

A'aqil gave her a sharp look. "You are being a pest, little sister. Now, stop bothering the master."

Elizabeth heard what was being said and saw how miserable Safa looked. "Are you all right?" she asked with concern. It would not do for any of them to get sick on this trip. "You look…unsettled."

Safa curled her lips into a sneer. "No, I am not all right. My rump is sore and I…I…" She stopped in mid-sentence, her dark face turning even darker. "I need to…you know…"

Understanding dawned. "I see," said Elizabeth. "I think perhaps we could both do with a break." She brought her animal to a halt and called to the men to stop as well.

A frown creased Erik's forehead. Delays were unacceptable. "Now what. This is no time to stop and make tea," he groused. "Another thirty minutes, maybe an hour, and we will be far enough away from that impoverished village to make camp."

"Another thirty minutes?" wailed Safa.

Elizabeth knew it was time to intervene. "Another thirty minutes, and it will be too late," she said sharply.

The girl agreed but tipped her head towards Rien, who along with Ra'id and A'aqil had continued riding. "He won't stop," she said with a moan. "Just like a man; he thinks we can all …"

"He'll stop," Elizabeth said. She rode up to Erik and whispered something into his ear.

"What—?" he said. He turned and looked at Safa, then back at Elizabeth. "Oh, I see what you mean." He held up his hand to halt the mule train.

Safa and Elizabeth scrambled down off the animals, rubbing sore, stiff muscles. The only privacy afforded anyone were piles of rubble and rock that were scattered all around. The largest one would have to do as their makeshift latrine.

"Turn your back, all of you," Elizabeth directed the men. "Safa and I will only be a moment."

"And no peeking!" Safa added, scurrying off.

A'aqil, Ra'id and Erik got off their mounts and walked around, stretching their legs while the women answered nature's call. Erik glanced skyward, a "why me?" expression on his face. "As if we'd care to watch them while they…they make themselves more comfortable," he muttered.

Ra'id furtively looked around, shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and said meekly, "I…uhm…I have to go, too."

"Go?" said Erik crossly. "Go where? There's nothing out here but sand and rock!"

A'aqil grinned knowingly. "You know. He has to _go."_

"I see."

"No," Ra'id shot back. "You _don't_ see. You're not supposed to peek, remember? Or want to, for that matter."

Erik harrumphed. Where did these two come up with such ideas! "Believe me. I have no interest in peeking at whatever 'small concern' you may have!"

A'aqil tsked. "Really, Master. There's no need to be peevish. It is a call that all men—and women—must answer. You understand, don't you?"

Erik let out a huge sigh. "Yes. Well…proceed."

Ra'id's handsome face turned a delicate shade of pink beneath its bronzed exterior. "I can't. Not until the ladies have settled and turned their backs."

"They'll never know," said Erik. "They're behind that pile of rocks over there. You go behind that pile of rocks over here. You all keep your backs to each other, and no one will see a thing."

"That might be true for an ordinary man," said Ra'id, fighting back a smile, "but I have no 'small concern,' as you put it."

Erik stared at the man in disbelief. What was the world coming to? Here he was, the former denizen of the opera house, the Phantom of the Opera, a creature feared by ballet rats and sopranos (not to mention over-weight tenors) alike, reduced to having a conversation in the middle of the desert about…about…bodily functions!

"I don't believe any this!" he said, rolling his eyes and wishing for nothing more than that everyone would finish whatever he or she was doing so they could get going again.

"But, it's true," said A'aqil, interrupting Erik's thoughts. "It's almost as big as Min's!"

Erik turned to his servant. _"What?_ You've seen his..._concern_?" Things were going from bad to worse.

A'aqil shrugged his shoulders. "Inadvertently, Master. I don't deliberately go looking for these things. I happened to have walked in on him when he was—"

"Stop!" Erik commanded, putting up his hands. "I do not care to hear the rest of it!"

Ra'id could not suppress his grin. "Actually, it's nothing unusual—for an Egyptian—though I've heard it puts Frenchmen to shame."

Erik glared. "I said this conversation stops. Now!"

"But…Master!" pleaded A'aqil. "We are only attempting to break the wind."

"Break the…you mean, break the ice?" Erik asked, dumbfounded.

Ra'id screwed up his face. "Ice? Out here, in the desert? You can't be serious."

"Go do whatever it is you need to do," said Erik. "Both of you. I'll wait here and hold your horses."

"Hold your horses?" laughed A'aqil. "Doesn't that mean—?"

"Never mind what it means!" growled Erik, his patience wearing thin. "Go! Do your business and be quick about it."

"I still don't understand, sir," said Ra'id. "Why didn't you like Amarna? True, there is nothing special about it, but it is not so different from most other villages along the Nile…is it?"

Erik considered Ra'id's questions. "I suppose not. It's only that it reminded me of..." He stopped short of revealing something personal. "Never mind. It's nothing. Go and do whatever it is you need to do."

The two servants hustled off to take care of business.

"Master?"

Erik turned and saw Safa returning with Elizabeth. Both of their faces bore signs of relief.

"Are you angry with me, Master?" The girl offered an apologetic smile and batted her large, brown, soulful eyes at him.

"Yes!" he blurted out. "No! I mean, yes, I am angry, but no, not with you."

Elizabeth gave him a look normally reserved for a willful child. "You shouldn't be so angry all the time. It's not good for your health."

"Thank you, Madame, for sharing that morsel of wisdom."

"There's no need to be snappish, sir," she said in a teasing tone. She was beginning to understand that this man's bark was much worse than his bite. He was, after all, a confirmed bachelor who was being forced to spend lengthy periods of time in the company of women. _And a certain pig-headed Englishwoman at that._

Erik looked about, calculating that they were a good hour's ride from the base of the cliffs, where he'd planned on their making camp tonight. "I hate this place," he said to no one.

"Why?" asked Elizabeth. "Standing here, can you not imagine what it must have looked like all those centuries ago? Palaces. Causeways. Temples. Pennants flying in the breeze. And even if you can't see that, surely you can admire the stark beauty of the desert."

Where Elizabeth saw beauty, Erik saw a few twisted, desiccated remains of what had once been trees sticking up from the ground like skeletal hands, and the occasional remains of the foundations of long-gone buildings. Hardly the sort of place that ingratiated itself to him. "Looks more like a graveyard to me."

"It's the sun," Safa said in a loud whisper. "It makes him grumpy. He says that too much gives him a headache. That is why he wears the _keffiyeh_."

Elizabeth's expression softened and gave him a sympathetic look as she considered the sacrifices this man was making on her behalf. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into my problems."

"No," said Erik. "I'm the one who should apologize. I have no reason to be short tempered with any of you."

Elizabeth commiserated. "I understand." She saw the skeptical look on his face. "Truly, I do. It's difficult to be good company when one is in pain."

"This isn't pain. It's…it's nothing."

Safa gave a little snort. "That's what he always says, shortly before he bites my tail off."

Elizabeth chuckled, and even Erik couldn't help but laugh at the young girl's malapropism. "Your head," he corrected. "I bite off your head, not your tail."

"English!" the girl exclaimed in frustration. "It is such a confusing language!" She looked at her donkey. "And another thing. I don't know why we didn't choose camels. They're much more comfortable than these nasty beasts!"

"_Et tu, Brute?"_ questioned Erik, the smile hidden by his _keffiyeh_ reaching up to his eyes. "And in case you've forgotten, camels have a nasty habit of turning around and nipping their riders. Trust me; I learned that the hard way."

"You did, Master? Please, you must tell us about it."

"No, I will not," Erik said, still in a jovial mood. "Some things are best left unsaid. More to the point, I don't think my dignity could survive the telling."

By now, everyone's mood had lightened and all three were laughing, the women wondering out loud what it must have looked like, to see the dignified Erik Rien riding such an unseemly beast as a camel. Once more, Elizabeth looked at Erik, and thought how much more at ease he appeared to be.

_He's really not such a bad person, and he can be very funny when he wants to be. I wish…I wish Leo would make me laugh like this. _

Erik looked at Elizabeth, noting favorably how laughter made her look younger.

_She's lovely when she laughs. Christine never laughed. I was too busy frightening her. I took myself too seriously to make jokes._

"What's so funny?" A'aqil asked, coming up such a cheerful group.

"Yes," added Ra'id. "What did we miss?"

"Nothing," Erik and Elizabeth replied in unison, laughing again at having done so.

Erik looked towards the western sky. "Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to break up this party, but we had best get going. It will be dark soon."

"Nice weather we're having," said A'aqil, as he mounted his donkey.

Ra'id nodded. "Unseasonably cool."

Erik got on his horse and shook his head, grinning. _They will be the death of me yet._

They rode in silence for several minutes, when Safa brought up the subject of music. "My Master has a beautiful voice," she said to Elizabeth. "Perhaps, if we promise to behave ourselves, he will sing us a song."

Erik was amused by the girl's less than subtle ways. "Sorry, Safa. No songs today."

"Please, Master?" she cajoled. "It will help take my mind off my bottom!" She rubbed her backside to make her point.

"Such a diva you are!" Erik said. "No one ever died from being saddle sore."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Before he could say another word, Elizabeth joined in. "Please, Erik? A song would be a good distraction for all of us."

Erik considered. "What would you like to hear?"

Elizabeth looked to Safa. The girl shrugged her shoulders. "You choose, Sitt."

"Oh, anything." An idea came to her. "I don't suppose you know any opera?" she asked, hopefully.

"I know opera," said Erik, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. He remained silent for several moments, pushing aside the dark thoughts that were trying to intrude upon this pleasant afternoon and began singing a lively song from Offenbach's _Les Contes d'Hoffman_, about a little man named Kleinzach.

_Il était une fois à la cour d'Eisenach!  
__Un petit avorton qui se nommait Kleinzach!  
__Il était coiffé d'un colbac,  
Et ses jambes, ses jambes faisient clic clac!  
clic clac! clic clac!  
Voilà, voilà Kleinzach!_

Even without understanding the words, the others were able to follow the catchy melody. They smiled and moved their heads in time to the infectious tune.

Safa turned to Elizabeth. "Do you know what the words mean, Sitt?"

"Yes, it's the story of a dwarf name Kleinzach, who lived at the Court of Eisenach. He has a hump for a stomach, and his feet hang out as if from a sack, and when he walks, his feet go click-clack."

Safa laughed and clapped her hands together. "Oh, I love this Kleinzach!"

Then the music changed. Erik's song was no longer a happy, silly song, but one of longing and heartbreak. Elizabeth said nothing, but could sense the emotion and felt tears well up in her eyes. She was familiar enough with Offenbach's opera to knew that the song was now about the love of the main character, Hoffman, for a woman named Stella, but part of her recognized that Erik wasn't simply singing about a fictional character's yearning, but his own as well.

"Madame? Madame, are you all right?"

The song was over. Elizabeth blinked and looked at Erik. "I…uhm…I...that was beautiful."

He stared back at her and thought that at that moment, he'd never seen anyone so captivating.

_Yes, _you_ are beautiful…_

He cleared his throat. "I was saying that this looks like a good place to camp. What do you think, Madame? Shall we take a vote on it? I wouldn't want anyone to feel left out of such an important decision."

The place he indicated was level land, relatively clear of stones and rubble. It was close enough to the cliffs to provide shade from the afternoon sun, but not so close as to put them in danger of falling rocks or the nooks and crannies that housed such desert creatures as snakes and scorpions.

She smiled back at him, more comfortable with his teasing nature than she had been earlier, and agreed that it was, indeed, a very suitable place. They dismounted and began to unpack and set up camp.

"Your horse has proven himself, sir," Elizabeth said. "I take back what I said earlier. He's a fine animal. He suits you."

Erik was stunned by her words, and looked for a hidden insult. Finding none, he did the only proper thing. He said, "Thank you."

-0-0-0-

Each person had his or her assigned tasks. A'aqil's was to set up the shelter tents that were among the provisions they'd brought from Luxor. There were three—one for the ladies, one for Ra'id and A'aqil, and one for Erik. Erik took care of the animals, and saw to it that they were watered, fed, and tied up for the night. Ra'id wandered about, gathering whatever kindling could be found—dried out pieces of wood, as well as dung. Elizabeth set up the kerosene camp stove and unpacked the dishes and cooking utensils. With the canned goods they'd brought with them, a hearty meal would be ready within a reasonably short time. Safa got out the bedrolls and, once the tents were erected, she saw to it that everyone had blankets on which to sleep. By the time they were finished, their camp would look like a miniature village.

Safa shook out another blanket and looked around. Not for the first time did she wonder why anyone would ever want to come here. "Why is this place important?" she asked Elizabeth, who was cooking up a nice stew. "There are no great ruins—no statues, no temples—just a lot of rubble. At least where I grew up, near the holy mountain of Gebel Barkel, there are pyramids and temples. Here? There's nothing."

"It doesn't look very hospitable now," said Elizabeth, "but this was once a great city, for a brief time the capital of Ancient Egypt. Unfortunately, time has not been as kind to this place. In fact, we are still only beginning to understand what happened here centuries ago, as Western scholars were unaware of its existence until the last century. The first European to write about the Amarna ruins was a Jesuit priest who came here nearly a hundred years ago. He was the first to write about it and about the boundary stelae that guard its perimeter."

A'aqil was walking by at that moment and gave a little "ha" sound. "I imagine the locals never considered the stelae to be 'lost.'"

Elizabeth agreed. "No doubt, you are correct."

"Hush, brother," Safa snapped at him. "Don't you have chores of your own to do?"

"What? I've got the tents up. What more do you want me to do?"

"Here," she said, shoving an armful of blankets at him. "Put these in the tents. Make sure there are two blankets for each person—one for the ground, and another to cover with. I'll help the Sitt prepare supper. That is, if you want to eat."

A'aqil took the blankets and walked away, muttering about the indignities of a man taking orders from his younger sister.

"What exactly are these _stee-lee _you mentioned?" Safa asked, returning to their conversation.

"They are large tablets carved into the rock. They are known as boundary stelae for the simple reason that they mark the border of the ancient city."

"Will we see these _stee-lee_?"

"If there's time, maybe we can talk your master into taking us to visit one or two."

"There is more than one? This is going to be great fun."

Elizabeth was in her element, and quickly warmed to the girl's eagerness. "Yes, I think an excursion to the stelae would make for a pleasant side trip."

"What more can you tell me more about this place, Sitt?" the girl asked.

"Back in 1798, the French Emperor Napoleon sent his _corps de savants_ here. They prepared the first map of the place. A couple of decades later, these ruins were visited by an Englishman by the name of Sir John Gardner Wilkinson and later, Robert Hay. They drew maps and made copies of stelae and tomb art, but their works were never published and remained all but forgotten in the bowels of the BM."

Safa raised an eyebrow. "The…BM?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Silly me! I forget that others are not used to the nickname we English give to the British Museum. But, where was I? Oh, yes. For several more years, the Amarna ruins were all but ignored. Nothing much in the way of exploration took place until a German fellow by the name of Karl Richard Lepsius led an expedition here in the 1840s. My father, who is an Egyptologist, studied under Lepsius."

"Have you been here before?"

"Once. Many years ago. My father brought me along with him. I was a little younger than you are, Safa, and it was my first trip to Egypt. I fell in love with this land, and wanted to learn more. That is why I became an Egyptologist, too."

-0-0-0-

After dinner, the group sat around the campfire, drinking a cup of tea before going to bed. Safa and A'aqil were telling tales on one another—tales from their childhood. Like many another sister, Safa enjoyed embarrassing her older brother.

"And that's when he said, 'But Mama! The woman who bought the cow promised me the carpet could fly!'"

There was much laughter around the campfire.

"Don't you believe a word she says, Master," A'aqil said. "She's the devil, that one."

Safa stuck out her tongue at her brother. "Every word is true! You sold our cow for magic beans."

"It was a flying carpet! And if you hadn't broken the spell by tattling on me, who knows where we would be today?"

"We'd be in the streets, without a penny to our name!"

Elizabeth turned to Erik. "Where did you grow up?"

He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. He lifted a shoulder, and let it drop. "Here. There. We moved around a lot. How about you?"

"I grew up with my widower-father and his two spinster sisters. They were always ready to read to me, and later, to offer me books. My father began taking me with him on digs when I was in my teens, much to their chagrin. They do not believe that a lady should go trudging across the desert. My father, on the other hand, always encouraged me to follow my heart." She sighed. "I was often lonely as a child. I missed the company of children my own age. And I could never get away with anything! Whenever something disappeared or was broken, my aunts knew exactly who to blame."

This admission brought a smile to Erik's face. "You were a difficult child?"

"Not exactly difficult. More like willful." She looked at him, watching the light of the fire cast flickering shadows on what she could see of his face. "But what about you? Do you have brothers? Sisters? Where do your parents live?"

His eyes turned cold. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"There is nothing to say. I have no siblings, and I have no parents. One might say that I am one of a kind."

"That sounds grandiose," she teased.

"That is hardly what I meant," Erik said, his eyes flashing. At that moment, his scarf slipped, momentarily exposing a little more of his misshapen face near the right eye. He quickly tucked it back into place.

She averted her eyes quickly, but the glimpse she caught revealed a terrible sight. "I see," Elizabeth said, thoughtfully.

"No you don't. You can't imagine what it was like! No one could." He was speaking softly, but quickly. "I have no memory of my father, and barely remember my mother. The earliest memories I have are…" He stopped, regaining his self-control, "…are not the subject of idle conversation."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Elizabeth said, suddenly reserved and polite. "Please forgive me. I always seem to be saying the wrong thing."

Erik got up, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. "I'd better join Ra'id and check the animals," he said, and walked off.

Elizabeth looked at Safa and A'aqil, and saw they were glaring at her. "I didn't mean to pry. I was only trying to make conversation."

"He has endured much suffering," said A'aqil. "His soul is tormented."

"Shhh!" Safa cautioned. "It isn't polite to talk about him when he isn't here."

"What! I didn't say anything!"

"All this talk of suffering, and torment! Is it not enough, my brother, that the past few years have been pleasant?"

"Pleasant enough," said A'aqil, "but there is something missing. He has no one but us. I hear him walking around in the house, often all night long. He is restless. He needs a challenge. There are times when I think not all the mysteries of Egypt are enough to keep him occupied."

Elizabeth turned to A'aqil. "What about you? I've never heard you mention a wife. Do you have a family?"

"I have my hands full taking care of my Master and my sister."

"Besides, who would marry him?" said Safa. "He doesn't know the first thing about women!"

-0-0-0-

**More Notes: **

_Description de l'Egypte_ (Edmé Francois Jomard, editor: 1809-28) was published in Paris soon after Napoleon's great scientific and military expedition to Egypt in 1798. Comprising 23 volumes, this work directed the attention of the world to ancient Egypt and led to the modern study of its ancient history. It was the result of a collaboration between the general editor and a number of prominent scholars and scientists, artists and technicians, all of whom accompanied Napoleon's army on this expedition. _Description de l'Egypte_ took almost 20 years to publish, and includes 900 plates bound in 11 volumes, nine volumes of text and three volumes of grand format.


	16. Troubled Minds

**Treasure of Egypt  
****Chapter 16  
****Troubled Minds**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_"A mask tells us more than a face."  
_~**Oscar Wilde**

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth could not sleep and instead spent the night tossing and turning. No matter which way she laid, she could not get comfortable. She tried to blame it on that late-night cup of tea, on the rocks on the ground poking up through her blanket, and on the desert animals that came out to hunt, but she knew that none of these was the reason. The problem was, as always, centered on Leo.

He was the cause of her restlessness. Because of him, she had no way of knowing what the coming days would bring. Naturally, she was eager to learn what her wayward husband had been up to for over three weeks, but there was more. She was also troubled by the conflicting emotions she felt whenever she was around Erik Rien. If Leo had come home right away as he was supposed to have, none of this would be going on.

_Blast! Why does life have to be so complicated?_

She looked over at Safa, envying the young girl's peaceful sleep.

_No doubt, her conscience is clear. _Her_ heart isn't finding itself being torn between a missing husband and an enigmatic Frenchman. _

Accepting at last that sleep was not going to come any time soon, Elizabeth tossed aside her blanket and quietly got up. A quick walk around the perimeter of their camp would not doubt work wonders in easing her anxiety. Grabbing her sandals that doubled for slippers, she slipped them on. She dug a lightweight shawl out of her clothes bag and wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off any chills, and was thankful that she'd brought along a _galabeya_ to wear at night. Years ago, she had learned that a _galabeya_ was preferable to the more traditional nightgown when sleeping in the field, as one never knew when it might be necessary to leave the relative privacy of one's tent. The traditional Egyptian tunic was far more practical and provided ample modesty without the bulk and frills of a lady's dressing gown.

_Yes, much more…practical. _

Outside, the air was cool and the night sky clear night. Elizabeth took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the refreshing night air. She turned her gaze skyward. Overhead, the small sliver of the moon looked lost amidst a brilliant sea of stars. She wandered aimlessly as she amused herself by picking out constellations—and quite literally ran into Erik Rien.

-0-0-0-

Erik couldn't sleep. For some unknown reason, tonight his mind tonight was filled with images of Paris and Christine. This was foolishness, he told himself. Christine, the opera house—both were part of the past, a past he had abandoned and left behind. But it seemed that the only person he was fooling was himself. If he was truly over Christine, then why then did he still draw pictures of her in his sketchbook? Why did he continue to keep the ring she returned to him when he'd told her to go with her young man?

_Can I never quit torturing myself over the sins of the past? Can I not stop thinking of what might have been? _

He had told Christine to leave him, had urged her to go with her young man and forget him, forget all she had seen and heard. Yet he could not follow his own advice.

In those days immediately following the debacle that had been his own doing, he had accepted that he would never be able to completely forget her. For as long as he would live, _she_ would always have a place in his heart. _She_ had been the only person able to look upon his face without fear, without loathing. She had given him his first kiss, his first—and only—taste of love. It was only right that he should hold her memory dear.

Over the years, though, the memories had become less painful. Most of the time, he could think of those days without being overcome with remorse and sorrow. In fact, there were times when months would go by without his giving conscious thought to his past. But now? Why was _she_ on his mind so much of late? Could it have something to do with …Elizabeth Brackenstall?

Elizabeth. Beth, as he found himself calling her in the privacy of his thoughts. A month ago, he had never seen her. He had only known the Brackenstall name through his contacts in the antiquities market, nothing more. But in only a few weeks, she was replacing Christine in his mind in the same way her face had inadvertently replaced Christine's in his sketchbook.

Was it possible that he beating himself up because he felt as though he was betraying the memory of his one perfect love?

_No, that was foolish._

Or was it? Knowing that trying to sleep was useless, he decided to take a walk. Perhaps the night air would clear his mind. And that is when he ran into Elizabeth Brackenstall.

-0-0-0-

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said, grateful that it was dark and Erik would not be able to see her face suffused with embarrassment. "I…I didn't realize anyone else was still awake."

"My mistake," Erik mumbled.

_What's she doing out here, at this time of night? Doesn't she know that the desert can be a dangerous place?_

"Not able to sleep?" he asked, attempting to cover the discomfiture of this midnight encounter with innocuous conversation. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting her to think he was staring at her…_ galabeya?_ He eyed the garment approvingly, admiring how it complimented her form, made her look younger, more innocent.

_It appears the woman does have some good judgment, choosing something sensible rather than yards of ruffles and lace. Apparently, she has adapted to the more comfortable native clothing, at least in some circumstances._

"I felt restless," she said.

Erik nodded, unsure what she expected him to say.

_What _do_ you say to someone you run into, in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night?_

Elizabeth didn't seem to mind his silence. Instead, she pointed to the sky. "The stars are beautiful tonight. Look! You can see the Milky Way. Did you know that the Egyptians thought that it was the goddess Nut?"1

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with that story," he said. He'd already admitted on the day they met that he was no expert in the field of Egyptology. No need to try hiding that fact at this late date. And besides, he was truly interested in what she had to say.

"To the Egyptians," she was saying, "the Milky Way resembled a woman lying with her arms stretched over her head, and to them it became the embodiment of the Nut, goddess of the sky and the wife of Geb, the earth god."

Erik followed her hand, recalling images he had seen among the papyri and paintings that had come through his shop over the past few years and remembering seeing the figure of a woman, clad only in stars, stretching her body across the heavens. As he looked skyward, his eyes came upon the waxing crescent moon.

"A quarter moon," he noted. "That means today is …December 31. New Year's Eve. _Bonne Année, Madame."_

"New Year's? It can't be. That would mean we left Luxor on…" She made a quick calculation. "That would mean that we left Luxor on…Christmas Day. Oh, Erik!" she said, at once feeling terrible. "I've made a mess of things, haven't I?"

Erik laconically shrugged his shoulders in that Gallic way that indicated the matter was of no great importance. "I have no idea what you mean."

"You are being far too gracious. Instead of battling sandstorms and a certain recalcitrant female, you should have been celebrating, spending the days with your loved ones. Instead, you gave all of that up and arranged for me to find my errant husband, and not only that, but you've come with me, to help. What did I ever do to deserve such a friend as you? A good friend, a true friend…."

He tried to wave off her kind words. "I…I had my own motives," he said. It would not do to encourage her to make more of his actions than were warranted. "You forget that my house was broken into, that my servant was injured."

Elizabeth believed none of this, and looked at him, her eyes shining with unspilt tears of gratitude.

"Several rare vases were destroyed," he continued. "It was in my own best interest to find out who…who…" It took only one look into her eyes, and he found himself weakening. "You're not believing any of this, are you?"

She shook her head. "No, not a word."

"I am not who you think I am," he said, fighting hard not to want her.

"If that were so, you could easily have left me to find my husband on my own. You would have remained in Luxor and celebrated Christmas with your friends and family, enjoying a splendid feast on this very evening as you welcomed in the New Year."

"Haven't you figured it out by now?" he blurted out. "There's no place I'd rather be than here…with you." He caught himself and hastily added, "And A'aqil and Safa. And…and that man of yours."

Elizabeth made no reply, but laughed softly and allowed him to keep talking.

"This is the most fun I've had in years." And it was, in spite of the circumstances involved. "A'qail, too, although I doubt you will get him to admit it. Lately, he's grown fat and lazy. Why, half the time, he doesn't even try to steal from me any more. He just walks right in and takes what he wants…"

He paused, scanning her face, her very pretty face with her brilliant eyes and luscious lips.

"He…he steals…right from under my…my…" He couldn't take his eyes off of her hair, reflecting the faint light from the moon, looking like spun gold, begging for his fingers to comb through it. "…my very…" He inhaled her fragrance, that sweet, delicate perfume she wore, that made him think of gardens and walks in a park, and wondered what it would be like to walk her, arm in arm, down the paths of the Bois du Boulogne. "My…nose..."

If she noticed how distracted he was, she didn't let on. Instead, she said, "Still, there must have been _soirées_. Parties you'd planned to attend? A young lady, perhaps?"

Erik thought back to the last New Year's Eve party he attended, when he'd shown up as Red Death. He remembered Raoul jumping through the trapdoor behind him, remembered…remembered _everything_….

"No," he said. "As I said before…I am not who you think I am."

"Then tell me who you are."

"Are you sure you want to know?" Erik took a deep breath. What was it about this woman that made him want to tell her…the truth? "I am…I am nothing but trouble. A mongrel, a hideous creature whose own mother couldn't bear to look at him!" He laughed coldly. "I am the Devil's Child."

"Perhaps you've been a rogue, but the Devil's Child? Isn't that a touch melodramatic?"

"It's true. And there's more…Elizabeth." _Elizabeth. Beth._ He repeated her name over in his mind.

"You don't understand," she interrupted. "I don't really care who you _were_. What is important to me is who you are here, _now_. You're a good man, Erik. A kind man."

"Kind? I'll tell you how kind I am. I killed a man when I was ten years old."

His admission caught her by surprise. "There…there must have been a reason."

"Oh, yes," he said derisively, "there was a reason. I did it because I _could. _I did it to_ escape._" He looked hard at her, saw the confusion on her face, and knew he wasn't making much sense. He shook his head. "A woman like you could never understand," he said sorrowfully.

"What do you mean, you did it to escape? Tell me what happened, Erik. Help me understand."

"A woman, a _lady_ like you, could never know what it was like. You see, I was treated like an animal, kept in a cage. If I didn't perform as expected, I was beaten. I was fed enough to keep me alive, but not much more. I was always hungry…and cold! Always cold! That's probably why I like Egypt. Here, I am never cold."

"A cage?" she asked, gently, a little frightened.

Erik nodded. "I was a sideshow attraction in a Gypsy carnival, a freak, displayed for all to gape at."

"Are you a Gypsy?"

"No. I was their captive, their slave. I grew up an orphan. My father disappeared before I was born, and my mother died when I was very young. I might have been five years old at the most. The villagers were a superstitious lot, and feared the hideousness of my face. No one was willing to take me in or care for me, and so I wandered off on my own. I'd been in the woods for days when the Gypsies found me. They immediately recognized me for what I was—the perfect addition to their show!

"I didn't want to perform for them, and tried to run away. That's when they threw me in a cage and kept me locked up. Every place we went, people would come to gawk at me, to _admire_ my ugliness. They'd throw money into my cage as payment for the show. My…my _master _would gather the coins for himself, and if I were _lucky_, he'd leave behind the half-eaten garbage they'd thrown at me. That was how I spent _Christmases_ as a child."

He touched his face, beneath the scarf. "If I hadn't escaped, I…I doubt I would have survived to adulthood."

She fought back the crushing sadness of his story. "I…I'm sorry, Erik."

"You're sorry?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. Could it be that she was sincere? Yes, it could be. Look as hard as he might, he could see nothing in her expression to suggest otherwise.

She nodded, and reached up to touch his cheek. Erik shied back, unused to such attention.

"It was Hélène who saved me, hid me in the opera house where she lived. There, she brought me food, took care of me until I could make my own way. Her efforts allowed me to regain a semblance of sanity by rekindling what little had been left of it after…after I…" His voice drifted off as his thoughts flowed back in time. "Hélène was very good to me. She gave me back my dignity."

"I remember you mentioning her name before. On the boat, the day you taught me to draw, you said Hélène raised you. She must be a good woman." She paused. "That's such a terrible story, Erik, but it's not the whole story. You're not that little boy any more. You've risen above your circumstances and made something of yourself."

Erik snorted. "How right you are. Yes, I made something of myself. When I was sixteen, I grew tired of the opera and all it had to offer me. I was restless and decided to make my way in the world. I had some skill with magic tricks, and I knew the world of carnivals. So I bade good-bye to the only friend I'd ever known, and went to make my fortune as the greatest magician the world had ever seen. And I did. I became wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. I was famous. I traveled the continent, gaining experience while performing as The Living Corpse."

Elizabeth shuddered.

"I don't want your pity," he spat, and immediately regretted his sharp words. What had he expected her to do? Cheer for joy? He knew he should stop, but couldn't. After keeping silent on the subject for so long, he was unable to stop talking. His past spilled out of him like floodwaters breaching a dam.

"My travels took me to the Middle East, where I lived for several years. I caught the eye of the Shah of Persia, and was invited to his court where I became known as the Angel of Death."

"The…Angel of Death? I don't understand."

"It's simple, really. Court intrigues abounded, and more than once, I was forced to extricate myself by utilizing…severe measures that occasionally included death. You could say it was my stock in trade. My reputation grew, and I allowed myself to be thought worse than I was, yet in the end, wearied of the maneuverings of the Shah's court. By now, I was disenchanted with life in the outside world and returned to the only place where I'd known comfort and safety—the opera house where once again, my old friend Hélène welcomed me home."

He looked at her, waiting to see the look of disgust on her face. When none came, he became confused. He pulled back emotionally, trying to distance himself. "Wasn't that enough? Wasn't that enough to convince you that I am not some…romantic figure of a man who performs acts of kindness for damsels in distress?"

She took her time and considered what he had been telling her. His story was, in many ways, upsetting; however, hadn't she already suspected him of having a dark past? And if what she had seen of his face was any indication, would it be any wonder that he'd known a harsh and difficult life?

"I don't know about that. You've been very kind to me." She reached out and put her hand on his forearm. "And if you want to know the truth, I think that, given what I know now, what you've done for me is even more gallant than I had imagined."

"I am not gallant. I am not kind. I am not…."

"Yes. Yes," she said gently, "you've already told me. You're not who I think you are. If you say so, then who am I to suggest otherwise? But you've been my friend, and I don't know that anything else matters."

Erik could not believe what she was saying; much less believe the twinkle he saw in her eyes. "That…that's naïve," he said, a little teasing lilt in his voice as he tried to lighten the mood.

Elizabeth feigned indignation. "You know, I could easily turn the tables. I might say, _I_ am not who _you_ think I am. What if I am some unscrupulous con artist, luring you out into the desert so that my husband and I—or should I say, my accomplice and I?—might steal you blind and leave your carcass for the jackals?"

As if on cue, a pack of jackals cried in the distance, startling her. She jumped forward, closer to him, and Erik instinctively caught her in his arms. He saw the playful look on her face, and knew there was no use in protesting any further. "Then let us be content to say, we are neither of us who the other believes us to be."

"Agreed."

Extending his arm, he asked, "Madame, would you care to walk with me? The stars are especially vivid tonight."

She accepted the proffered arm, smiling brightly. "I believe that's where we started."

"I promise to keep the conversation pleasant this time."

They walked away from the camp, away from the tents where Safa, A'aqil and Ra'id slept. For a moment, she turned serious. "Erik, I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I'm glad that you told me about yourself, that you felt you could trust me with your past."

"I wish I had told you something happy."

"It's not too late. This is New Year's Eve. In my country, we say _auld lang syne._"

"_Auld lang syne? _This is not English."

"It's Erse. It means, 'times long past.' We toast the past, and then welcome in the New Year."

"I'd prefer to burn my past rather than toast it."

"So be it." She laughed charmingly. "You're more comfortable in the darkness, aren't you? You enjoy nighttime. I've noticed that you are more relaxed in the evenings than during the day."

Erik looked up at the night sky. "I've always found that nighttime sharpens, heightens the senses. Stop and listen. Can you feel it?"

She shivered. "I confess I have always been a little afraid of the dark. I like being able to see everything around me."

"That is because you use only your eyes to see. Close your eyes. Let the darkness wake your imagination."

"I don't understand," she said.

Erik stepped behind her, and covered her eyes with his hands. "Relax."

A nervous laugh came out. "Easier said than done." Instead of breathing slower, her breaths quickened. Erik stole a glance as he watched her bosom rise and fall with each inhalation. He looked away, towards the horizon, and forced himself to focus.

"Shhh," he urged. "Calm down, breathe slowly, and listen. What do you hear?"

"I hear _you_ breathing."

"What else?"

She shivered again as his breath brushed against her neck. This time she forced herself to concentrate on the sounds around her.

"Off in the hills, I hear the jackals crying."

"Yes. Go on. What else?"

"There are crickets chirping."

"That's good. Anything else?"

"I hear...something...something..." She stopped. "Something in the sand!" she gasped.

Erik laughed softly. "It's only a lizard. A very small one and it is running away." He felt her sharp intake of breath. "Are you frightened? Shall I take my hands away?"

"No," she said, finding that she was enjoying this—Erik, his hands touching her, his breath caressing her, his voice enveloping her like a silken garment. "Yes, yes, I can hear it now. A small shooshing sound. That must be its tail swishing back and forth, over the ground."

They remained still and Elizabeth continued picking out night sounds—the call of an owl, howling jackals, nocturnal mammals scampering, night birds scouring the sky, all of them hunting. Out of nowhere, something swooshed past them. Elizabeth jumped and reached up, grabbing Erik's wrists.

"Oh my goodness!" she cried out. "What was that?"

Erik took his hands away from her eyes and rested them on her shoulders, comforting her. "Only an owl, hunting."

She turned her head, trying to see him, but Erik was standing directly behind her. "It came close enough that I could feel the wind beneath its wings. It was…exhilarating!"

Erik released her. "In my country, they are harbingers of death."

A frisson of fear traveled down her spine. She thought of Leo. What if it was an omen?

_Stop that. You're an intelligent woman. Omens are nothing more than superstitious twaddle. _

"Maybe the owl is telling us that we should enjoy life more. We only get one chance; we should make the most of it." She looked into his eyes. In the moonlight, they appeared to be both threatening and adoring.

"I have a good life."

"I know. But it could be better. If you were to marry..."

He shook his head. "Marriage is not for me."

"...you and your wife could spend time with Leo and me."

"Thank you, but no. I prefer not to be reminded of what I can't…"

"Go on."

"Of what I can't have." He looked at her hungrily, longingly, heart-breakingly.

"Please…don't," she pleaded. "Don't say it."

"I know you feel it too, Elizabeth. Don't deny it."

He closed his eyes, as though weary of being denied what he wanted. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself from saying what she wanted so desperately to say.

"It isn't right," she choked out.

"That doesn't make it go away," Erik replied, his voice carrying all the sadness of the world. God, how he wanted to live for the moment, to take her in his arms and kiss her like there was no tomorrow. He let his guard down, allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her closeness, inhaling the scent of her freshly washed hair.

"Erik?" she said, feeling herself succumbing to her desires.

"Hmmm? You smell like attar of roses."

"It's perfume. Do you like it?"

He nodded. "Look, over there." He pointed to the sky.

"A shooting star!" she exclaimed. "Quick! Make a wish!"

Erik shrugged. "My wishes don't come true."

"Just one. It can't hurt."

He stood and watched the falling star.

_I wish...I had her in my arms._

"I think it's time we said good night, Elizabeth. We have a long day ahead of us, and the sooner we find your husband, the better." Erik said, breaking the awkward silence that had grown between them. He realized how close he came to doing something he shouldn't. "Go back to camp, Elizabeth. It's late. We both need our rest."

"Erik—"

"Go. Leave me."

Recognizing how close she had come to betraying her husband, she fled to her tent as fast as her feet could carry her, fighting back tears. Erik stood and watched as she disappeared into her tent, and heard her sobs.

"That's right, Elizabeth," he said silently. "Run. Run fast…before I do something stupid."

He went back to his tent, but did not sleep. Over in the other tent, he could hear the faint sounds of Elizabeth sobbing. Her crying must have awakened Safa, as he could here the two of them talking.

"Sitt, what is wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything. Everything is wrong."

"Don't cry, Sitt. Master will find your husband, you'll see."

Elizabeth only sobbed harder, and Erik hated himself for causing her such pain.

-0-0-0-

**Notes:**

The Ancient Egyptians saw the form of the Milky Way was similar to a woman lying with her arms stretched ver her head. This symbolism is related to the myth of Ra (sometimes known as Re) the sun God. When the sun set each day, Ra died. To be reborn the next dawn, Ra had to travel underground through the dark hours of the night, each hour's doorway being guarded by frightening demons which the god had to succeed in passing. Many parts of this journey are depicted on the walls in the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. At the end of his journey, Re manifests as Khepri, the sacred beetle. He rests momentarily before being born as a disc from the Goddess Nut.


	17. The Search Begins in Earnest

**Treasures of Egypt**

**Chapter 17  
The Search Begins in Earnest**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Because we focused on the snake, we missed the scorpion.  
_**Egyptian Proverb**

-0-0-0-

"Are you feeling better this morning, Sitt?" Safa stood by as Elizabeth dressed, waiting to see if the Englishwoman needed assistance. "Here, I brought some water for you to wash with. Your eyes are still a little puffy. Are you sure you will be well enough to visit the tombs? I can tell the men to explore them, while we stay here at camp. It is only right that they do this. That is men's work, not women's."

Elizabeth shook her head and smiled wanly, comforted by Safa's concern. "I'm fine. Really, I am. Last night was simply a case of the nerves."

"This is understandable. You are concerned for your husband. You must love him very much."

"Mr. Brackenstall and I are very good friends," Elizabeth demurred.

Safa cocked her head to one side, knitting her brows as she tried to figure out what the Englishwoman was trying to say. "Do you mean that…you do not _love_ him? But…you _like_ him?"

Elizabeth made no reply, but to Safa, that was an answer in and of itself. "There is nothing wrong with that, Sitt. Is it not better to be friends with your husband than that the two of you dislike each other?"

Elizabeth chuckled softly. Leave it to Safa's pragmatism to lift her spirits. "Yes, you're quite right. Here I am, castigating myself because I like my husband, when I should be thankful that he is at heart a good man. That doesn't mean I don't get annoyed with him from time to time."

"Such as when he runs off into the desert without telling you? Of course." The girl was grinning, satisfied that she had accomplished what she had set out to do—to bring the Sitt out of her bad mood.

"Exactly!" Elizabeth exclaimed, and the two women laughed together.

The girl basked in the older woman's friendship. "You finish dressing then, while I go see what those lazy-bones men are up to."

-0-0-0-

"Here, let me help you with that."

Safa flashed a smile at Ra'id, who had come over to help her draw water from the well. "But…this is woman's work," she protested half-heartedly. "I do not need help doing this."

She cast a modest glance his way, pleased at the attention he was giving her. Ever since they'd arrived at Amarna, he had been nearby, offering to help her—whether it was carrying heavy things for her, lifting her onto the saddle of her donkey, or helping her around the camp. What was best, though—at least in Safa's eyes—was the look of great happiness she saw on his face whenever he looked in her direction.

"Nonsense," he replied. "A young lady should not be doing such heavy work all by herself."

"Thank you, Ra'id." She batted her lashes for good measure.

Together, they walked back to the camp. Along the way, she glanced over to where the animals were tethered and noticed that someone had taken a piece of canvas and put up a sun sail to protect them during the hottest part of the day, before the shadows from the cliffs moved across their campsite.

"Did you do that?" she asked, pointing at the canvas shelter.

"Yes, I did. Even lowly beasts of burden need shelter."

"Oh, that is very thoughtful of you."

Ra'id basked in her praise. "Yesterday, when I was gathering kindling, I found the remains of an old paddock as well as a trough. This morning, your brother and I moved the trough closer to the animals. We filled it with water so that they will not endure any discomfort while we are exploring the tombs today."

"You are truly a good man. A woman would be blessed to have such a thoughtful and caring man as you for her husband."

"Does not Allah teach us to treat our animals well? As the Prophet—peace and blessings upon him—said, 'Fear Allah when you deal with these beasts of burden. They must be healthy for riding and eating.' And also, 'Verily, there is a heavenly reward for every act of kindness done to a living animal.'"

Safa was impressed. "You are a very knowledgeable man."

He bobbed his head, pleased to have made such a good impression on her.

-0-0-0-

"Madame, a word with you if I may?"

It was Erik. He had been waiting for Elizabeth to make her appearance. She tipped her head, acknowledging him, and followed when he indicated that what he had to say was private. They stepped away from the tents, so that their words could not be overheard.

"Yes?" She hesitated, unsure of herself and even less sure what Erik might want to say.

"About last night," he started. "I…I wish to apologize."

"Please, there's nothing to apologize for. We had a pleasant conversation. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes, but after that, I said some things that should have remained unspoken."

She blushed slightly. "We both did."

"I…I hadn't meant to make any improper advances. I don't know what came over me."

"There was nothing 'improper' about what either of us said last night," she insisted. "We were two people, two friends, talking. That's all."

He was still doubtful as to her true feelings, not sure how far he should believe her assurances that all was well between them. "Yes. Very well, then," he said, knowing there was no further use in continuing the conversation. "I supposed we'd best have some breakfast before we start out."

As he walked back to their camp, the nagging doubt remained that he had damaged their relationship, perhaps irreparably.

-0-0-0-

Safa, with Ra'id's help, was preparing breakfast. It was a simple affair consisting of coffee, bread and a few dates. Lunch would be similarly unspectacular—something easy to pack and carry with them as they tramped among the cliffs, searching for Leo Brackenstall.

While waiting for the coffee to percolate, Elizabeth took a few moments to examine their situation. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of activity, what with their arrival at Amarna and the trip here. And as for last night? Well, she had had other things on her mind. During it all, she'd failed to notice exactly how much in equipment and supplies they had brought with them.

"Goodness! I've never seen so much equipment." She caught Erik's eye, and could not resist the urge to tease him…if only a little. She was not, by nature, a particularly morose person, and after so much emotional upheaval, she needed some levity to improve her mood. "What on earth did those men sell you?"

"They sold me nothing," Erik replied, slightly offended.

"Of course not," interjected A'aqil. "My master is not some kind of fool."

Erik shot his servant a look. "I bought a few creature comforts, for all of us. I have extensive experience with caravans and camping. I have traveled much during my life, from Russia to Persia—and beyond." He did not elaborate, knowing Elizabeth surely remembered what he had told her last night. "When it came to planning our little expedition, I saw no reason for us to lack at least the basic comforts."

She smiled at him approvingly, and inspected the furniture. There were two folding slat-back chairs, a folding salon chair with a buffalo hide seat and back with a sliding side tray for drinks, and a folding rocker.

"I thought you might enjoy sitting in a rocking chair in the evenings," Erik said.

She saw that the ground had been cleared away, so that the chair could actually rock. His thoughtfulness made her smile, and brought a slight blush to her cheeks. "I've never had a camp chair quite like this before. I must say, Monsieur! You certainly know how to travel in style."

"There's no reason we should suffer."

"You are most considerate," she said, settling herself comfortably in the chair. "I'll not feel deprived, not for a moment."

Erik beamed back at her, allowing himself a moment of pride. "I try, Madame. I try."

-0-0-0-

All agreed that it would have been nice to ride the animals rather than walk on foot, but the paths that would take them to the south tombs were too narrow for horses or donkeys. They weren't sure what they were going to find, but at the very least hoped that they would come upon some evidence that Leo was, or had recently been, in the area.

As they prepared to scout out the burial places, Elizabeth provided them with some background as to what they should expect to find. She explained that this was the larger of the two groups of Amarna tombs, a dozen or more burial places that had been cut into the flanks of a low plateau in front of a major break in the cliffs.

"The rock is of poor quality," she told them, "and the tombs are not in very good condition. Most of them were never used, but were abandoned before they were finished. Their artwork, though mostly in poor condition, possesses a great charm. As we walk, we'll be able to see traces of the original roadways that the ancients used."

"So, we will not be finding any mummies?" asked A'aqil, disappointment written on his face.

"No, I'm afraid not. We're still learning the story of this place, but it is apparent that shortly after the death of the Pharaoh Khuenaten, the city was abandoned."

"Too bad," A'aqil mumbled. "I had hoped that we would find something of interest."

Erik's eyes rested on Elizabeth. "I already have," he said softly to himself.

-0-0-0-

As they walked along the ancient path, their feet trod upon the numerous potsherds that were scattered about. Safa and A'aqil bickered playfully, she taking great pleasure in teasing her brother about his long legs.

"It is well that we did not ride the donkeys," she was saying. "With your legs hanging so low, your feet would have dragged on the ground. You're too big to be riding donkeys, my brother. You've been eating too much. You would break his back!"

Of course, it wasn't at all true, but that didn't stop her from saying so.

A'aqil growled. "Watch your tongue, little sister! You aren't too big to turn over my knee."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"Master! Master," she cried. "A'aqil is threatening to thrash me."

"Nonsense," said Erik, amused by their antics. "There'll be no thrashing. It is an empty threat."

"I would not be so sure of that, Master. She may be your housekeeper, but she is my sister. But you are right. I have spoiled her, indulged her in her willful ways, and look at how she repays me. If she ever finds a man stupid enough to marry her, he shall have the honor of thrashing her."

Ra'id interjected, "Allah said, 'Treat your children with kindness while they are young, and they will treat you with kindness in your old age.'"

"I am not a child," Safa said, sticking her tongue out at her brother.

A'aqil turned to Erik. "This is all your fault, Master. She has you wrapped around her little finger. She knows you will defend her. That is why she is a bold and saucy girl, and still unmarried."

Erik gave out a deep-throated chuckle. "She's barely old enough to be married."

"I beg to differ, Master. I am seventeen, soon to be eighteen. I should be cleaning my own house, taking care of my own husband, raising a child or two." She sniffed as she daintily dabbed her eyes with the ends of her scarf. "I will die an old maid! Truly, I will."

Erik frowned and recalled the ballet rats, and a young Christine, going through similarly awkward monthly blues. "You're being overly dramatic."

"I think your sister has a point," Ra'id said to A'aqil.

This made Safa wail even louder. "No one will want me! I have given the best years of my life to Master Erik and to my brother, and now, I am too old to be a bride!"

"That's not what I meant at all!" Ra'id said, quickly attempting to comfort the distraught girl. "What I meant is that there are many men who would consider themselves most honored to win your hand. Many! Why, I myself would consider it an—"

A'aqil interrupted. "Be careful what you say! She has a way of making people keep their promises!"

Ra'id scowled at A'aqil, then said to Safa, "What I was trying to say, before your brother so rudely interrupted, is that I would consider it an honor if you would allow an old man such as myself to be a candidate for your hand in marriage."

Elizabeth had said nothing up to this point, and now, Ra'id's proposal took her completely by surprise. "But…you're twice her age!" She thought for a moment, and then added, "What can you offer her?"

"She is the kindest, most beautiful woman in Egypt. She is like the jewel in the crown. I would offer her my heart. I have a modest income, and I would treat her lovingly the rest of my days."

Safa blushed and smiled at Ra'id. "He is not too old," she said sweetly.

A'aqil sighed. "Even a blind man should have seen that, since the trip started, an attraction has been forming between the two of you."

"Wait a minute," said Erik. Then, to Elizabeth, "If they were to marry, what would that make us?"

Elizabeth had no idea what he meant, and gave a puzzled look.

"Honorary in-laws?" Erik asked. "I mean, as head of the household, I am responsible for Safa. Are you responsible for Ra'id?"

"Are you suggesting that we are like the father and the mother of the bride and the groom?"

"I know it sounds absurd. It was only a thought."

Elizabeth blinked. "I…I don't think it works that way."

Safa walked up to Erik and pulled on his shirtsleeve. "Master Erik, if you are Father, then Ra'id must pay you the bride price."

Everyone stopped. Ra'id, Erik, and A'aqil all looked at Safa. "What?!" they all exclaimed.

"You three can work out the details while we continue walking to the tombs." She ran back to Elizabeth. "Sitt! Tell me more about what a married woman needs to know!"

A'aqil looked at Ra'id. "I guess this makes us brothers."

Ra'id stood, looking dumfounded. "What happened?"

Erik slapped him on the back. "Congratulations! You are now betrothed to the kindest, most beautiful woman in Egypt –the 'jewel in the crown,' I believe you called her."

A'aqil nodded. "Yes, this is so. You said those very words."

Ra'id, realization dawning upon him, grinned with pleasure. "Allah be praised. I am a lucky man."

"Yes you are," said A'aqil, slapping the groom-to-be on the back. "And don't you forget it."

"I believe this is what you would call a haboob engagement," Erik said, smirking, pleased with himself for having gotten in the last word. "If I didn't know better," Erik said quietly to him, and to him alone, "I'd think you planned this."

A'aqil smiled slyly, and only winked in reply.

-0-0-0-

Along the way, their path took them near a typical snake habitat. Throughout the morning, Erik had been cautioning Elizabeth—and anyone else who would listen—to be more careful where they walked. In his mind, he saw himself as being her protector. After all, with no husband around to look after her, he felt responsible for her safety. The last thing he needed was to return her to Leo Brackenstall in less than satisfactory condition. The others, however, and especially Elizabeth, thought he was being a touch overbearing and did not appreciate being lectured.

"Perhaps it has slipped your mind, but this is not my first trip to Egypt, nor is it my first time out in the field," she reminded him. "I know you only have our best interests in mind, but you are making much ado over nothing, and I would appreciate it if you would quit fussing over me. I know how to look for snakes and other vermin. You would be better off to look to yourself."

Erik replied testily, "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind demonstrating more caution? This is prime nesting ground for sand vipers."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, reminding herself that he was only concerned for her safety. As they continued their walk, a suspicion began to grow in her mind. "It is possible that it is you, Monsieur, who is the one uncomfortable out here?" A thought then came to her. "That's it, isn't it? You're afraid of snakes!"

"Don't be absurd," Erik said, staring down his nose at her.

"My master is not afraid of snakes," A'aqil said. Then added, "He's terrified of them."

"I thought as much," Elizabeth sniffed.

"I am not afraid of normal snakes," said Erik. "It's these damned Egyptian snakes that I dislike. The natives say they can fly."

"Flying snakes?" she said, incredulous. "Surely you don't believe such superstitious twaddle."

"They do exist, Sitt," A'aqil interjected, "and they are hardly supernatural. They are not phantoms, not ghosts. They are real! One must be vigilant in the desert. Always on guard. Always prepared for one to come leaping out at any mo—"

Erik shot A'aqil a dark look. "That will be enough. You are scaring the lady." He nervously rubbed his hands on his thighs.

"I see," said Elizabeth, eyeing Erik.

Undeterred, A'aqil continued his litany of snakish qualities. "They have long, sharp fangs that drip venom..."

"I said, enough!" Erik ordered.

"…and eyes that glow in the dark like golden embers."

Elizabeth could not help but notice Erik's growing distress throughout the conversation, a discomfort that had become most notable at A'aqil's mention of dripping fangs and eyes that glowed like embers. In fact, she was certain that, at one point, the man's complexion looked positively green. The idea that Erik was squeamish about such things surprised her, but even though the man could be difficult, she found herself feeling sorry for him. She decided it was time to lighten the subject.

"Fascinating," said Elizabeth. "All this brings to mind the depictions of snakes with wings by the Ancients, such as the goddess Wadjet, who was sometimes depicted as a winged snake. These creatures are common in Egyptian art—in religious texts, on the walls of royal tombs. The Greek historian Herodotus even claimed to have seen skeletons of these flying snakes, but I suspect someone was pulling his leg."

Erik snapped at them. "Can't we speak of something more pleasant than snakes?"

And with that, the subject was dropped.

Along a wide expanse of the cliff, they found evidence of previous digs conducted by the French Mission Archeologique, the archaeologists who had been working on and off in the Amarna area since 1883. Thanks to the work of the Mission, they found relatively easy access to most of the tombs, as the rubbish and intrusive burials of later dates had been removed in many instances. There were, however, no artifacts to be found, no grave goods, no mummies, only wind-blown sand that had accumulated over the years, and no signs of Leonidas Brackenstall. Erik had suspected as much, as they had come across no animals, no evidence of a camp—current or old—and certainly no workmen.

"As long as we're here, why don't we have a quick look?" he suggested, hoping in this way to distract Elizabeth from feeling bad. "Who knows when we'll get another chance to get back this way? And you can tell me more about this Khuenaten."

Elizabeth considered his suggestion. Her initial reaction was to say no, but then she thought differently.

_Leo's off having a grand adventure. Why shouldn't I? And why shouldn't I make the most of this opportunity. Who knows? I may find something of value out here. If nothing else, I've found someone who respects my opinion and shares my interests._

"Yes," she said to Erik. "Let us see what we can find."

Exploring ancient tombs was what Elizabeth lived for. It was not only her vocation, a subject she had studied since she'd been a child at her father's knees, but her avocation as well. Entering the tombs was like stepping back in time, and the prospect of doing so thrilled her.

They had gathered inside one of the tombs, and Elizabeth's love of sharing her knowledge made itself apparent as she pointed out the various wall paintings. Many of them were scenes featuring the Aten—the living sun disk with arms extending from it instead of rays, each arm ending in a hand holding out an ankh, the symbol of life—and the mysterious Pharaoh Khuenaten. Most of the paintings featured various activities involving the royal family, often involving the making of offerings before heaped altars under the rays of Aten.

Safa was fascinated and peered intently at the strange-looking figures, figures that showed the same unusual physiogamy as on the piece of wall painting Elizabeth had found among her husband's possessions. "Sitt, who exactly was this Pharaoh Koo-en-ah-ten?"

"That's a good question, and the answer is still being debated among scholars," Elizabeth replied. "The earliest interpretations were that Khuenaten was actually a woman, a female pharaoh, but there are many Egyptologists who today question that."

"Then, why does he look so strange? Look, his belly is bigger than that of a woman with child. His legs are like sticks, yet his thighs are huge! And his neck is so long, it's a wonder he can hold his head up."

"We don't know for sure. It could be that he suffered from a disease, or there might have been some kind of disfigurement that could explain his appearance. One thing we know for certain, the artistic styles of this period in Egyptian history have no comparisons to any other. See here." She pointed to a drawing of the royal family—Khuenaten, his queen, and several princesses praising the Aten. "Note how the human shape is drawn much more naturally. And here," she said, bringing their attention to some animal scenes, "you can see that everything is much more lifelike in appearance."

Erik, too, was fascinated by this strange, misshapen pharaoh. "And have you developed any theories about this person?" he asked.

Elizabeth paused a moment before she answered, worried that he was making fun of her. But from the look in his eyes, she could see that he was genuinely interested in her opinion, and in what she knew about the subject.

"I haven't studied this place enough to form my own theory, but recently, some have tried to equate Khuenaten with the Biblical Moses. Khuenaten, you see, attempted to introduce monotheism to his people. He banished the old gods, and replaced them with this one—the Aten, who is personified by the sun disk."

"All the gods?" asked A'aqil. "Even Min?" He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Yes," Elizabeth said archly. "Even Min."

A'aqil shrugged. "No wonder his revolution did not last beyond his death."

Erik asked Elizabeth, "And do you think he could have been Moses?"

"I'm not sure. I do know that he was a religious visionary."

"Maybe he was nothing more than a political opportunist," Erik suggested. "I recall reading once that at this time in history, the priests of Amun held as much power as the pharaoh; maybe even more. Might Khuenaten have used this new religion as a way of breaking the power of the priesthood, making him both a religious and political leader?"

"Either that, or he was just plain loony," muttered A'aqil. "Any man who would allow himself to be portrayed looking like that probably didn't have all his eggs in one basket."

Erik looked closely at the paintings, studying them. "There is another possibility," he mused.

This caught Elizabeth's attention. "What do you mean?"

"The art. It is a radical departure from previous periods. There must be a reason for this. I wonder if the representations aren't meant to convey a message of some sort." He turned, and realized everyone was waiting for him to continue.

"We're all familiar with the older art, prior to Khuenaten. It's highly stylized, almost ritualistic. It is meant to be 'read' the way we today might read a written language."

"What are you suggesting?" Elizabeth probed. "As an artist, what do you see that historians may have missed?"

"That the art of this revolutionary king is noteworthy. It isn't simply meant to show us an ugly man. It's meant to tell us something about the individual. I mean, he led a revolution—or tried to. He was a non-conformist, even in the art that represents him."

"Fascinating," Elizabeth whispered. "I see it now." She ran her fingers over the paintings, not quite touching the figures, but seeing them through Erik's eyes. "I think you're on to something."

"It seems obvious," he muttered. He pulled out his sketchbook and began to make quick notes and drawings of what he was seeing.

Elizabeth peered over his shoulder and smiled. "You realize that you could publish your theory, corroborated by your sketches. The BM would be very interested in what you have to say. You could be famous."

Erik stared daggers at her. "I think not," he said. He returned to his work. "But," he added softly, for her ears alone, "if you can use these some day, perhaps in your own articles, you may consider them yours."

"I'd be honored to be your collaborator," she said, excited at the prospect, "but I insist on giving you full credit for the art and for the theory."

He scoffed at the thought of his name—his assumed name—appearing in an academic journal. "If it comes to that, which I highly doubt, you may use your own name." One look at her face told Erik she was quite serious, and he reconsidered. "If you insist upon crediting me, simply credit me as E. Rien. Nothing more. I value my privacy."

Elizabeth knew from the tone of his voice that on this subject, he was intractable and said nothing more. Although she couldn't understand why he did not want to be acknowledged for his theory, she let the subject drop. Just when she thought she was beginning to understand the man, he pulled something like this. Erik Rien was proving to be even more of an enigma than she'd ever imagined.

-0-0-0-

By late afternoon, the small search party had returned to camp. The exhilaration Elizabeth had felt earlier in the day, when playing the tour guide, had worn off. Now, she was dejected.

"I suppose I was expecting too much, to have found Leo on our first day here," she said.

Erik tried to comfort her, give her hope. He reminded her that there were two more areas of tombs to be checked. "Your husband is searching for the tomb of a pharaoh, which would likely be found up the road with the other royal tombs."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," she said, adding a sigh as she rubbed her neck. "Then again, we may have gotten it all wrong. Leo might not be here at all." A troubling thought entered her mind. "What if…" Her voice trailed off; she didn't want to say it out loud.

"Yes?" Erik said, prodding her to speak.

"What if Leo never had any intention of coming to Amarna? What if the clues he left us were deliberately wrong, that his purpose was to mislead anyone who would come following after him?"

"Where else could he be looking for a royal tomb of the Eighteenth Dynasty, then?"

"Across the river from ancient Thebes, in the Valley of the Kings."

"You mean, back at Luxor?"

"I'm afraid so." She stood for several moments, pondering what to do next. "Well, no use standing here, not doing anything. I'll go check our provisions and see what Safa and I can put together for supper."

-0-0-0-

Erik tried to relax, and brought out his sketchpad, hoping to work on the drawings he'd made earlier, but relaxation was nigh impossible when being followed, for it seemed no matter which way he turned, Ra'id was always nearby. Every time Erik reached for something, Ra'id grabbed it "helpfully" and handed it to him. When Erik got up, Ra'id followed him around with a folding stool ingratiatingly—in case Erik wanted to sit down.

"Stop this at once!" Erik grumbled.

Ra'id furrowed his brows, puzzled. "Stop what, Master?"

Erik cocked an eyebrow at the Egyptian and scowled, his eyebrows forming an angry "V". "Stop trying to guess my every move. Stop acting like a schoolboy with a crush on a girl! And stop calling me your master!"

Ra'id blinked. "What is a crush?"

"Never mind. Just…stop following me around. You need not impress me. If Safa wants to marry you, then that is her decision to make, not mine."

"But…you stand in place of her father, and I must prove to you that I am worthy of her. She has already told me that even if she marries me, she will stay on as your housekeeper. Therefore, I shall avail myself to you."

"You're wasting your time with me. I…I approve, damn it! Now, go impress her!"

"I do not understand."

"Go…woo her!"

"Woo? What is this…'woo'?"

"Damn it, man! Make love to her!"

"Master!" He saw Erik frown. "I mean…sir!"

"Oh, I don't mean it like that. I mean…court her. Spend time with her. Tell her you love her. Sing to her!"

"I can't sing, sir. I have the voice of a mule."

"I could teach—no! Just go and spend time with the woman you love."

"Is that what you wish?"

Erik closed his eyes. "Ra'id, I thought you an intelligent man, but I'm beginning to wonder."

Ra'id backed off. "I…I will do as you say, Mas—sir." He bowed and ran off, joining Safa.

"Thanks be to Allah," Erik said, sitting down heavily, completely missing the footstool that Ra'id had set up for him. He got up and dusted himself off, glowering at the footstool. He suspected that tonight would be another sleepless night.

-0-0-0-

Shortly before dawn broke, Elizabeth was up, getting ready for their walk to the royal tombs that were nearby. Outside, she could hear kitchen sounds as Safa was preparing breakfast, and inhaled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

"Mrs. Brackenstall, come quickly, please!"

Elizabeth started when A'aqil burst into her tent without warning. She was about to reprimand him when she saw the frantic look on his face. This was no joke. Something was terribly wrong.

"What is it? Is someone hurt?" Elizabeth asked, wondering if Safa had burned herself. She reached for her emergency surgical field kit.

"It is Master Erik. He's been stung by a scorpion."

"Then all will be well, A'aqil. Scorpion stings can make a person sick, but seldom anything worse."

"Not this one, Sitt. It was the Deathstalker!"

Elizabeth blanched and turned cold with fear. "Oh dear god."

-0-0-0-

**Notes:**

Flying snakes are depicted in Egyptian art and are found frequently in religious texts painted in the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Wadjet was sometimes depicted as a winged snake. The Greek author Herodotus claimed to have seen skeletons of flying snakes when he visited Egypt. It is not known how the idea of winged snakes originated, but among the suggestions that have been put forth are the resemblance of the posture of the snake's neck and anterior of its body to wings when it is excited, the fact that horned vipers throw themselves at their victims, or the resemblance of a shedding snakeskin to wings.


	18. Life and Death

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 18  
Life and Death**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor._  
~**Homer, **_**The Iliad**_

Elizabeth hoped that A'aqil was mistaken because if not, Erik's prospects were dismal at best. If it was a deathstalker and not a common scorpion—and unfortunately both were frequent to this region—then there was little they would be able to do. Most victims of the deathstalker's sting died within a few days, but not before suffering terribly from convulsions, paralysis, difficulty breathing, and heart failure.

A'aqil threw open the flap of the tent. Inside, they were greeted by the sight of Safa and Ra'id, their arms around Erik, encouraging him to lie down. Erik, however, was struggling against them. His clothes were disheveled, and the _keffiyeh_ he always wore was askew. His eyes were wide and unfocused. It was obvious that the venom was already coursing through his veins, doing its deadly work. But even in this weakened state, he was making a valiant effort to stay on his feet.

Elizabeth stood frozen for a moment, and pondered as to how it was that the poison was acting so quickly. Could it be that Erik had been stung more than once?

"Please, Master. You must lie down." Safa's gentle voice was urging him, as a mother to a stricken child.

"No," Erik mumbled. His muscles spasmed and he crumpled like a dead weight to the ground. Safa and Ra'id refused to let go, and Erik would have fallen had they not been holding him. His eyes darted about as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Then they lighted upon Elizabeth. For a moment, he appeared lucid.

"What is that?" he asked hoarsely, noticing her surgical kit. "Your…little bag of life and death?" He started to laugh, but it turned into a wracking cough. His stomach cramped, and he curled up.

Elizabeth rushed to him and quickly took charge. "Of course not," she said soothingly, brushing her fingers across the exposed part of his forehead, alarmed at how rapidly his fever had risen. She turned to the others. "He needs to be cooled off," she said. "Do any of you have experience in treating scorpion stings? Are there any local treatments we can use?"

A'aqil shook his head, his expression grim. "All I know to do is to make the patient comfortable…and pray."

"Should we cut the wound, to draw out the poison?" Safa suggested.

"No," said her brother. "That may work with vipers, but not scorpions. Cutting the wound will only cause the venom to spread more quickly."

"There must be something we can do!" his sister cried.

"We must get him out of these clothes," Elizabeth said, half to herself. "I'll need your help. He's too large a man for me to handle by myself." She caught the look of surprise on A'aqil's face. "I'm thinking of his comfort," she scolded.

"Yes, Sitt."

Now that she was doing something constructive, Elizabeth felt better. Standing back and feeling helpless was not for her. She went over to the cot and shook out the blanket sitting there, neatly folded, and spread it out. A'aqil got behind Erik and slid his arms under the other man's, clasping his hands around the chest, while Ra'id grabbed his feet by heel of the boots. On the count of three, they lifted him up and gently laid him in his bed. That accomplished, Elizabeth began giving instructions.

"Ra'id, get a couple of basins and some water. Oh, and some cloths, too. We'll need them for compresses. A'aqil, we'll need more clean blankets. The venom will undoubtedly nauseate him, so we'll need as many as you can find. Safa, I want you to stay here and help me."

She turned her attention back to Erik. "We need to bring your temperature down," she told him. She was panicking inside, but her voice remained calm and reassuring. She reached over to the scarf that was covering his face. "I'm going to take this away. You're sick. You need to breathe freely, to let your body be unencumbered."

"No!" he shouted, or at least he tried to shout. What came out, however, was more like a whimper. Tears welled in his eyes. He lay on the cot, helpless to stop her as she uncovered his face. A horrible sensation struck him in the pit of his stomach when the shock on her face told him she could see his true hideousness.

The sight stunned Elizabeth. What looked up at her was far worse than anything she had imagined. Of course, she had known all along that there was something wrong. The slightly malformed flesh around the drooping eye had hinted at grotesqueness, but she had not thought that the damage would cover the entire right side of his head. It was so extensive that hardly any hair grew in the tangled mass of scars, yet the undamaged side presented a luxuriant, sandy-colored mane. It was a terrible parody of a face, one side heart-breakingly handsome, while the other was repulsive.

But she didn't have time to ponder the irony of this. Erik's life was at stake and time was of the essence. She forced herself to smile at him and pushed back the shock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, wanting to reassure him, and saw the hurt in his eyes as he grabbed for the scarf and tried to cover his face once again. What she saw was not merely the pain from the scorpion's sting, but a deeper, older pain. A pain that cut straight to her heart.

"No…don't look…at me like that," he panted. "Why are…you doing this? Why would you…why would…_anyone…_want to help me? Better I…should die now…than live to…cause more pain."

At that moment, his appearance didn't matter to her. All she wanted to do was to hold him in her arms and comfort him. But such daydreaming was not helping Erik, and Elizabeth snapped her attention back to the task at hand. She turned to Safa, and was surprised to see that the girl was not taken aback at what had been kept hidden from them.

_But of course not. She works for him, lives in the same house. No doubt, she's seen this before._

"He isn't making sense," she said. "He's delirious."

"Master," Safa said, coming over and kneeling by his side. She took his hands into hers and rubbed the backs of his with her thumbs. "Master, listen to me. We know about your face, A'aqil and I. And the Sitt, she is an educated woman. You may have surprised her, but she does not frighten easily."

His expression turned to one of shock and horror. "Wha…? How…how can you know?" he rasped.

"When I first came to your house, Master, do you remember?" He tried to nod yes, and she continued. "It was my first week as your housekeeper. I came looking for you, to tell you that your supper was ready. You didn't hear me; you were playing that fiddle-thing."

Erik tried to smile, remembering those days, but another spasm of pain wracked his body and the smile turned into a grimace.

"I entered the room, and I saw you—but you did not see me. You had taken off your scarf. I was frightened. I slipped away and went to find my brother. I told him what I had seen. He told me of your misfortune, and said to me that if I could find it in my heart to set aside silly superstitions, I would learn that you were a good man, and a good master. He was right, my brother was. Now, let us finish removing your _keffiyeh_. You will be more comfortable with the cool air against your skin."

Erik murmured something unintelligible. He was too weak, too disoriented, and in too much pain to stop them. The fight went out of him, and he resigned himself to his fate.

"You…should not have to…look upon my face," he said, lucidity momentarily returning as he looked straight into Elizabeth's eyes. He struggled for breath as he spoke. "I…I have…never been more…serious in my life. Leave me…here. Go and…find your…husband. I'm as…good as…dead. Don't you…see? Now I…really am…the Living Corpse!"

Tears coursed down Elizabeth's face as she reached out and put her hand on his cheek. "No, Erik! You're not going to die. We're not going to let you," she said, but Erik never heard her.

He had slipped into unconsciousness.

A'aqil returned with the blankets. "Here, let me help you." He knelt down next to the cot, opposite Elizabeth. She had removed the headscarf and was undoing the uppermost buttons of his shirt. Between the two of them, then quickly removed his outer clothes.

"What happened?" she asked as she folded the clothes, setting them aside.

"I am not sure. My master didn't sleep much during the night, and was up early. I heard him grumble about something. I came in and asked if anything was wrong, but he said it was nothing. Later, when I brought his breakfast, I saw the dead scorpion on the ground and found my master suffering from the early stages of sickness."

"Are you sure it was a deathstalker?" she asked.

A'aqil nodded. "I scooped it up and put it over there," he said, pointing to a jar on the camp desk that held the remains of the straw-colored arthropod. "Don't worry. It is dead."

"How like a man!" she exclaimed, trying to be angry with Erik, but unable to. "That explains the apparent sudden onset of symptoms." She looked at their patient, lying pale and helpless. "Oh, you foolish man," she said, choking back a sob. "You must have known that you were in trouble, but kept it to yourself. Do you care so little for yourself that you would rather die than…?"

Their recent conversation came back to her, when the barriers he normally kept erected had come down, and he had told her a disturbing story of a life filled with pain and rejection. Of course, he didn't care about himself. In his mind, his life wasn't worth living.

But that did not mean that others felt the same towards him. She would keep him alive by the sheer power of her will, if need be. Blast it all, he had to live!

"Erik," she said, trying to wake him up. She needed to know exactly what had happened, and where, so they could treat him properly. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes. I need you to tell me on what part of your body the scorpion stung you."

He stirred upon hearing her voice. His eyes fluttered open. "My…leg, above my boot," he struggled to answer. "Damned creature. Didn't see it. Must've…crawled up…my trousers." With a shaky hand, he pointed to his right knee.

Elizabeth looked for the spot and found it just above where his boot would have reached. It was surprisingly benign looking. No major swelling, no large area of redness, just a small puncture of the skin. She called up her own knowledge of treating injuries, but knew she was out of her league with this, her experience having mainly to do with cuts, scrapes and setting the occasional broken bone. When she looked at his face again, she saw he was sweating profusely. The fever was raging within him. She turned to Safa.

"In my surgical kit is a pair of scissors. Bring them here, if you would."

"What are you going to do?" the girl asked. "I thought my brother said…"

"We need to cut away the rest of his garments. I don't want to move him any more than necessary."

"Oh. Yes." The Nubian girl scrambled over to the kit and handed the scissors to Elizabeth. A glimmer of a smile broke when she observed that the Englishwoman had quickly overcome any obvious repugnance she might have had for her master's disfigurement.

As they removed the rest of Erik's undershirt, Elizabeth noted with trepidation that early signs of nerve poisoning were appearing. There was an ominous bruising and redness extending up to his armpits, around his rib cage, and down the inside of his upper arms.

Erik remained oblivious to what was going on around him. He flitted in and out of consciousness, and his breathing became more labored. His sleep—if it could be called sleep—was fitful.

Elizabeth sat watching him for several moments, considering what else they could do. She thought of rolling a couple of the blankets and using them as pillows. "We can prop up his head and shoulders. It may help ease his breathing."

"Perhaps just a little," cautioned A'aqil. "I have found that it is often better to allow the victim to lie flat."

She agreed, and only folded the blanket a couple of times, then slipped it under Erik's head. Her fingers paused for a moment over the ravaged scalp and tenderly caressed the damaged flesh.

"You'll be all right," she said soothingly. "Be strong."

Ra'id appeared at that moment, bringing two basins and a pitcher of water. He looked down at the prone figure of Erik and for the first time saw his face.

"_Allah akhbar!"_ he exclaimed in horror. He blanched, and would have dropped the articles he was carrying had Safa not been nearby to take them. "That is not a man. It is a _djinn_," he said, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. He hesitated as he approached the cot. Safa glared as she took away the basins, but he did not seem to notice. "I…I believe I…left something out there," he said haltingly, and stumbled back out of the tent, nearly falling along the way.

Elizabeth had been too busy tending to Erik to notice, but A'aqil did. He nodded to his sister. "Go and see to your betrothed, little sister."

Safa protested. "I need to stay and help."

The truth was, Ra'id's reaction distressed her and she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to him. At least, not now. Maybe not later.

A'aqil put a comforting arm around her. "Remember the first time you saw Master Erik's face? You were saying only a few minutes ago how you came to me, upset." She nodded, blinking back tears. "It took some getting used to—for both of us. Keep that in mind when you talk to Ra'id. He's a good man. Now go, talk to your intended."

She left the tent and found Ra'id sitting on the ground, his face still ashen. She sat down beside him.

"Why did you leave in such a hurry, Ra'id?" she asked. She hoped that Ra'id's reaction was temporary but was dismayed with his reply.

"That is what you have lived with these years?" he asked.

Ra'id's emotions were in conflict. He hated himself, knowing how uncharitable he sounded, but he was horrified by what he had just seen. His gut reaction was that the Frenchman was some kind of monster; yet up until now, Rien had seemed like a perfectly normal person.

"What did you think?" she scorned. "That my master covered his face to hide his beauty?"

"I was unprepared. Men of the desert cover their faces all the time! I did not know what lay beneath. I could not have imagined... Safa, I must protect you from him. He's not what I thought he was."

"He is a kind and considerate man. The fact that he is ugly does not change my opinion of him. But your reaction may change my opinion of you! You show more compassion to dumb animals than to him who may be dying. I thought you an intelligent man, an educated man. Instead, I find you filled with superstition and ignorance, like any other peasant."

Unable to abide with what she saw as Ra'id's callous behavior, she rose and returned to the tent. Inside, she found Elizabeth still sitting next to Erik, applying cooling compresses to his head and torso.

"Here," Safa said, picking up one of the lightweight blankets her brother had brought them earlier. "My master would not like his nakedness to be seen by all." She tucked the blanket around his legs and lower torso, silently noting the irony of his well-formed body, muscular and healthy, that bore no resemblance to the scars on his face.

"He is _not_ naked," A'aqil corrected her. "We did not remove his under-drawers, as you can well see."

Safa forced herself to smile. "Yes, but my master would not view it that way."

Elizabeth noticed one of them was missing. "Where is Ra'id?" she asked.

"He is outside," Safa said numbly, nodding towards the flap. "Taking care of the animals."

Elizabeth flashed a wan smile. "Ra'id is a good man," she said.

"Yes," said the girl, her voice filled with sadness. "So everyone keeps telling me."

"Look at him," Elizabeth said, taking Erik's hand in hers. "He is strong. Surely he has the resilience to fight the venom."

Safa sat down next to her, watching Erik as he fought for each breath. "If not for the one side of his face being damaged, he would be an angel."

_And soon, _she thought, _he will be one!_

"He'll be fine. Mark my words," said Elizabeth, her stiff-upper-lip English upbringing coming to the forefront. "Erik Rien is not going to be brought down by...by a...a…"

She couldn't finish speaking, couldn't bring herself to say "deathstalker."

"All we can do is make him comfortable," A'aqil said softly. "We cannot even give him anything in your surgical bag for pain. It would kill him outright, although maybe that would be a better way to—"

Elizabeth looked up sharply at A'aqil, her earlier fears set aside. "He'll be fine, you'll see. He's young and strong. If anyone can beat this, Erik can."

"We can take turns watching over Master Erik," he said.

"The Sitt and I shall watch first," said Safa.

A'aqil nodded that this would be fine. "Then I'll go outside and talk to Ra'id." He got up and left the two women alone with their patient.

As the hours ticked away, Erik's condition worsened. His breathing difficulties became more pronounced, and he struggled for air. "Breathe, Erik. Breathe," Elizabeth coaxed. "That's it. You're going to be fine. In a few days, you'll be back to your old surly self, ordering me about, telling me to watch my step."

She cried softly, not believing her own words.

-0-0-0-

The rest of the afternoon, the women took turns sitting with Erik, each spelling the other when she got tired. Erik's stomach betrayed him several times during the course of the morning, as the abdominal cramps became stronger and stronger. They held his head as he retched, wiped his mouth, and did their best to make him comfortable. One of the blankets was cut into smaller sections, and these were used as compresses that were regularly changed in an effort to bring his fever down.

No one expressed a desire to eat, but A'aqil went outside anyway and scrounged around where they'd set up their makeshift kitchen, gathering items for a small meal. Ra'id had not come into the tent since he and Safa had spoken, and that suited the Nubian girl just fine. In her present mood, she didn't think she could remain civil to the man.

A'aqil later told them that Ra'id had volunteered to ride back to Amarna. "He said that he was going to see if anyone there had some local remedies, and promised to be back by sundown." Secretly, A'aqil wondered if they would see Ra'id again. When he left, he'd still appeared to be shaken by what he'd seen, but A'aqil said nothing of this in front of the ladies.

Elizabeth looked at Erik. The initial shock of the day's events had faded away, leaving her feeling numb inside. She gazed at Erik, lying on a cot that was far too short for such a tall man. From time to time, his body would shudder and she wanted to cry with frustration at being able to do nothing to alleviate his pain. More than once, she found herself wondering how much one person could suffer.

Then she looked over at Safa, who was sitting on a rug at his feet, her head bowed as if in prayer. Safa appeared to be on the verge of weeping. After all, Ra'id's absence was noticeable, and the young girl was distraught about her master's condition. Seeking to distract her, Elizabeth began a quiet conversation, speaking softly to avoid disturbing Erik.

"How did you come to work for your master?" she asked.

The Sitt's voice caused Safa to catch her breath. She had been so lost in her own thoughts, that she had forgotten that the other woman was there with her. "It is not very interesting, Sitt. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes, of course. That is, if you are willing to tell it." Elizabeth gave her an encouraging smile.

Safa nodded, thankful for something to do, even if it was only to tell her poor, miserable story. "There is not much to say. My brother and I were born in a small village near the town of Karima, in the Sudan, and we lived within view of Gebel Barkal, a mountain that has been considered holy since antiquity."i

"I've heard of it," said Elizabeth. "My father visited the place many years ago. I remember him telling me that the ancients believed to be the dwelling of the god Amun-Ra, and that several temples were erected there in his honor."

"This is true. I was raised on the stories of the sacred mountain, and the ancient Kingdom of Kush, and how, when the power of the Egyptians waned, the Kingdom of the Black Pharaohs rose. When I was young, my aunties would take me to see the nearby pyramids. They are much smaller than the Great Pyramids at Giza, but to a young girl, they were quite impressive."

She went on to explain that when she was 10 years old, her parents died in a cholera outbreak. Her brother tried raising her by himself, but they were very poor.

"You have no other brothers or sisters?" asked Elizabeth.

"No, just the two of us. A'aqil, he tried very hard to take care of both of us, but in the end, he arranged for me to live with two aunts while he went north to Egypt, where he'd hoped to make money. This is when my brother met Master Erik."

That brought a smile to Elizabeth's face as she wondered what that meeting must have been like. She suspected that there was a fascinating story waiting to be told. "Did your brother ever tell you the circumstances of their meeting?"

Safa shook her head, and actually chuckled. "No, but from what I've overhead when the two of them thought I was not listening, my brother was trying to steal from Master Erik. Instead of turning him over to the magistrates, Master Erik gave my worthless brother the opportunity to work off his debt and they became good friends." Safa went on to say that she had continued living with her aunts until about three years ago. "I was 15 at the time, and a group of European men came. They said they were exploring the region, and made camp for a month near Karima."

Safa admitted that she had been a bright-eyed, curious, and sometimes naive girl, someone who was outgoing and trusting. She visited the camp, and made friends with one of the men—an Englishman.

"He was handsome in that pale-skinned European way," she said. "He often asked me to show him around, and he would repay me by giving me little trinkets and gifts. It wasn't until after these men left that I learned that my English 'friend' had been telling everyone that he and I had been lovers."

"What? Why, that is outrageous," Elizabeth exclaimed. "The rapscallion!"

"A rap…what?"

"A rapscallion is a cad, someone who is morally reprehensible."

Safa agreed that this was surely the case with the Englishman. "My aunties and I were outraged at the lies the man had spread. I insisted that I was innocent, and even submitted to an examination by the midwives, who verified this. But the damage was done. Even though I had done nothing wrong, my reputation had been ruined. I could no longer live in my village. People shunned me and talked about me behind my back. I asked my aunts to send word to A'aqil. He came and took me with him back to Luxor, and that is how I ended up working for Master Erik."

That brought her back to the present, and she looked over at Erik, who tossed and turned on his cot. A huge sob broke out of her just then.

"Oh, Sitt!" she cried. "He has such a beautiful voice! I cannot bear to think that he'll soon be singing in Heaven."

-0-0-0-

**Notes:**

Gebel Barkal has long been a landmark used by traders traversing the great trade route that connected central Africa with Arabia and Egypt, letting travelers know that they arrived at an easy crossing of the great Nile River.


	19. Potent Magic

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 19  
Potent Magic**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Our remedies in ourselves oft do lie  
_**~William Shakespeare**

"Who said someone was going to die?" It was a voice as ancient as the land of Egypt itself that spoke.

Elizabeth and Safa started in astonishment. Standing in the tent entrance was not only Ra'id, whose slightly disheveled appearance spoke of his having only just returned from Amarna, but also the ancient fortune-telling crone. A'aqil followed behind. Hours had passed since his sudden departure, and Ra'id was covered in dust from the long ride between camp and the village, but he appeared confident in his discovery.

"She is a healer," Ra'id explained to the two women who were staring at him with bewilderment written on their faces.

The old woman bobbed her head and gave them a crooked smile. "I am called Talibah, because I am a seeker of knowledge."

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then Elizabeth remembered her manners and rose to greet the old woman. "Thank you for coming to us, Talibah," she said, holding out her hand in friendship. "I am called Elizabeth."

Talibah hobbled on creaking legs and clasped Elizabeth's hand within her two aged ones. Elizabeth was surprised at the warmth of old woman's touch, and took a long, hard look at the wizened face, with its rheumy eyes and face the color and texture of ancient parchment. She wasn't sure what the woman could do because, in her experience, surviving the sting of the deathstalker had more to do with luck than anything else. But the people of the desert often knew cures of which Europeans were ignorant. Was there a chance that Talibah knew of some native treatment?

Elizabeth allowed her glance to go back to the unconscious man on the cot. What did they have to lose? "You've dealt with scorpion stings before?" she asked.

The old woman nodded. "And have saved many lives as well." She held up a shabby-looking cloth bag. "Everything I need is in here."

A smile came unbidden to Elizabeth, as she could not help but recall Erik's earlier comment about a little bag of life and death. If this woman could save his life, then perhaps there truly was such a thing. "May I ask what you have in there?" she asked.

"Ingredients," Talibah answered cryptically. She opened the drawstrings and put her hand inside the bag, scooping out a handful of a white, powdery substance. "I will use this to make a poultice that will draw out the poison."

A'aqil had been standing back, observing, but now stepped forward. "I was always told not to cut the wound," he said. He sniffed the mysterious white substance suspiciously.

"I am not going to cut anything…or anyone," the healer replied, her voice carrying her displeasure at being contradicted. "I will merely place the preparation on the place where the scorpion stung him."

A'aqil took a pinch of the powder, examining it in the light of the setting sun. "And this is what you will use? Why, this is nothing more than natron and barley flour! You are going to use to _this _save my master's life? Why, natron is used for...you know what it is used for!"

The old woman scowled. "Why do you not say the word? You mean mummies," she said heatedly. "Impertinent young puppy. You question Talibah's knowledge of healing? I have seen more risings and fallings of the Nile than you can imagine, and over the years have forgotten more than you shall ever know. Yes, the ancients used it in the mummification process. If you bothered to study its history, you would realize that it also has healing powers." Her scowl lightened for a moment. "Besides, if it doesn't work, I can always add a slice of this and make us something to eat." She pulled an onion from her bag and waved it under A'aqil's nose, as if to deliberately provoke him further.

"I fear my brother has forgotten his manners," Safa said, shooting A'aqil an angry look. "Please forgive him."

"Why, you old fraud." A'aqil grumbled.

"Stop this at once!" Elizabeth ordered. "We're all upset and tense. Arguing will get us nowhere. Let Talibah try."

The old woman gave Elizabeth a thankful smile. "My people have used these ingredients for centuries, and with much success. But they won't work if _you…_" And here she pointed to A'aqil, "If you stand here, spreading your mistrust."

"Better then that I not watch," A'aqil said with a snort. "I would not wish to spoil your magic with my skepticism," he said, and turned to storm off.

"Good. Go." Talibah looked around. "Now, let me see. I need some water," she declared.

"I shall get it for you, grandmother," Safa said, using the term as a title of respect. She rushed out to the well, drew some fresh water, and hurried back with it. "What shall I do next?"

"Pour some in a cup for me, if you would."

Safa did as she was directed, and handed the cup to the woman. "And now?"

"Now, I am going to drink this." The old woman tipped the cup to her lips and drank down all the liquid.

"Is this part of the cure?" asked Safa.

"Bless you, child; no. I was thirsty," she said, and flashed Safa a wink. "It's a dusty ride, riding from Amarna to here on donkey-back."

-0-0-0-

Standing just outside the door, A'aqil and Ra'id were talking softly, so as not to be overheard.

"You were not very polite to the old woman," admonished Ra'id.

"I have seen too much superstition in my lifetime," A'aqil replied. "It troubles me to think of my master left in the hands of a _fakir_." He gave Ra'id a quick look. "I must confess that I am surprised you returned."

Ra'id was taken aback at the impugning of his character. Had the other man so little faith in him? "Would you rather I had stayed away?"

"No, but I was worried about what was going through your mind. If you had abandoned us, my little sister would never have forgiven you. And if you hurt my little sister…" He left the rest of the sentence unfinished. Ra'id would know his meaning. "She is, after all, your intended."

Ra'id looked inside, his eyes falling upon Safa. "Do you think that she will? Forgive me, that is?"

"That, you must ask her yourself."

Ra'id excused himself and approached Safa. He asked if he could speak to her, and moments later, the two stepped outside.

-0-0-0-

Safa looked shyly into Ra'id's face. In spite of being upset earlier in the day, she still felt tenderly towards him. They had known each other for little more than a week, but already she was certain that this was the man she was destined to marry.

"I am pleased to see you again," she admitted, keeping her eyes lowered modestly.

Ra'id swallowed hard. It was difficult to admit he had made a fool of himself. Even more difficult to admit it to the woman he was falling in love with. "I wasn't so sure you would welcome me back," he said, hesitantly. "I…I behaved poorly this morning."

She nodded. "Yes, you did. And I was angry with you. But…" She put her hand on his chest. "I believe that in your heart, you are still a good man."

"I had ample opportunity to think on my way to Amarna," he said, taking her hand into his and holding it tenderly. "You say that I am an intelligent man, but sometimes I can be as ignorant as any _fellah_."

She nodded again, but said nothing. Whatever he had to say, she wanted to hear the words of his own choosing, and not those brought out by any prompting on her part.

"I behaved like a foolish, superstitious peasant. You were right to chastise me." There. He said it. "But as I rode to Amarna, I saw the error of my ways. It was wrong of me to judge your master because of his appearance, and as soon as he is well, I shall apologize to him as well. And so I ask you, will you forgive me, Safa?"

"I forgave you as soon as you left," she admitted. "You are heart of my heart, Ra'id. I had faith in you."

"Thank you, Safa. You are truly a jewel."

Without meaning to, they both sighed, relieved that they had made it through this, their first crisis. And they laughed softly. Then Safa remember her master, lying near Death's door. She gestured towards the tent. "Do you think the grandmother can cure my master?"

"I know she may not seem like much and our ride to camp showed me that she can be quite cantankerous, but yes, I believe that if anyone cure your master, Talibah can. When I asked who might know how to heal the sting of a deathstalker scorpion, all referred me to her. I was told that Talibah has saved many lives over the years."

His confidence in the healer lifted her spirits as nothing else had throughout this long day. If he believed that her master had a chance of surviving this ordeal, then she did, too. Safa held out her hand to him, to let him know that she understood. "And what shall we do now, while we wait for her to work her magic?"

Ra'id smiled at her, his precious jewel. "Now, I wish to make amends to you."

"But, you already have."

"No, my jewel, not quite." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a bit of brightly colored cloth. "I bought this for you. Think of it as part of my atonement to you."

Safa smirked. "A bribe?" She opened the cloth and gasped when she found the most beautiful gold anklet she had ever seen. She held it up, admiring the goldsmith's work, approving the alternating spangles of semi-precious stones and coins that hung from the band. When she shook it, they tinkled lightly.

"I thought of you the moment I saw this," Ra'id said affectionately, leaning closer to her as he spoke, letting his forehead nearly touch hers. "I love the way you sound when you walk. Your bracelets and earrings make music. When we were on the boat, I always listened for you as you walked the hallways."

She daintily pulled up her skirt, just enough to expose her unadorned ankle. She turned her foot, showing off the beauty of her lower leg. "Will you put it on me?" she asked coyly.

"With pleasure," he said, then hesitated. "You realize, of course, that a gift like this is a _mahr_, a marriage contract, and that accepting it means we are formally betrothed."

Safa grinned. "What are you waiting for? Put it on me. I want to wear my new anklet."

-0-0-0-

Talibah and Elizabeth were alone in the tent. The old woman had told the others she worked best by herself, but acquiesced when Elizabeth insisted upon helping. "As long as you are here, will you assist an old woman and bring me something to kneel on?"

"Please, take the chair I was using," Elizabeth offered.

"No. I thank you, but I need to kneel upon the ground. A prayer rug will do."

Elizabeth spied one rolled up in the corner of the tent and brought it over. It appeared never to have been used before. _How like Safa to have such great faith in people, to place a prayer rug in here, should her infidel master convert, _she mused. She shook out the rug and placed it where the old woman directed, then helped her onto it.

Around her, Talibah set out her ingredients in an orderly fashion—smaller bags of various herbs and powders, a mortar and pestle, a box of matches, and a couple of copper bowls. In one small bowl, she prepared the poultice. Taking a pinch of this and a smidgeon of that, she used the mortar and pestle to crush the ingredients together. These were then placed in a bowl and to which was added a small amount of water. She continued mixing the preparation, adding water as necessary, until it had the consistency of paste, all the while reciting prayers. Once she was satisfied with the preparation, she scooped a dollop of it with her fingers and spread the paste on the sting site.

Erik stirred, reacting slightly as she touched the wound, but he was incapable of responding. The poison had nearly paralyzed him, and his breathing was increasingly labored. His skin had taken on a deathly pale hue, and his lips were tinged with blue from lack of air. If the old woman's medicine did not work, Elizabeth feared he might very well suffocate before dawn.

Now that the poultice was in place, she took the other small bowl. From another of the bags, she took out a handful of incense and lit it.

"What is that?" asked Elizabeth.

"It is called _kyphi_," the woman said. "You have heard of it?"

"Yes. It has been used since ancient times for its religious and medical properties. References are found to it in the Pyramid Texts, and the priest Manetho is said to have written a treatise on the preparation of it." Elizabeth closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as the fragrance of the _kyphi_ filled the tent. She knew that many of the ingredient listed by the ancients were obscure, but she was sure she could detect hints of cinammon and spikenard.

"You are a woman of great knowledge," Talibah said approvingly. "Your man here surely appreciates a woman such as you."

Elizabeth blushed deeply. "Mr. Rien is not my man."

The old woman shot up an eyebrow as if to say, "Oh?"

"He's…he is a friend," she quickly added.

"If you say so, Sitt."

Elizabeth decided it was useless to protest, to repeat that Erik was not her man. Instead, she sat and watched with fascination, feeling that she had stepped back in time and was watching a ritual that the ancients might have performed.

Talibah remained in a meditative position on the rug, her hands folded in her lap. She closed her eyes and inhaled the _kyphi_. Then she took her aged hands and placed them upon Erik's chest. The fragrance of the incense grew stronger and her ancient body swayed as she recited her incantation.

_Oh poison of Tefent, come forth, fall to the ground, and go no further.  
__Oh poison of Befent, come forth, fall to the ground, and go no further.  
__I speak for the goddess, the mistress of words of power.  
I am the weaver of spells, and know how to utter the words so that they take effect.  
__Harken to me, every reptile that bites and stings, and fall to the ground.  
__Oh poison of Mestet, go no further.  
__Oh poison of Mestetef, rise not up in his body.  
__Oh poison of Petet and Thetet, enter not his body.  
__Hear my command!  
__My words rule to the uttermost limit of the night.  
I speak to you, Oh scorpions._

Elizabeth could not believe what she was hearing. The spell old Talibah was uttering was nothing less than the ancient prayer of Isis! She sat, spellbound, and felt the power of the old woman's healing presence surge through her as it filled the room. Inside the tent, the light grew dim as the lanterns sputtered for no apparent reason. Elizabeth told herself that this was only natural, that her eyes were playing tricks with the thick, ropy smoke rising from the burning incense. But for a moment, she thought she saw a writhing shadow arising from Erik's body.

Could it be? Could the woman really be drawing out the poison?

At last, the old woman pulled her hands away and bowed her head. Talibah covered the incense bowl to stop the _kyphi_ from burning. "It is finished," she declared.

"Is he…is Erik cured?"

The old woman grinned a toothless grin. "The darkness in him was strong, but Talibah is stronger. Yes, I drew out much of the poison. Now, he must rest."

Talibah, with Elizabeth's help, rose with a groan. Together, the two of them picked up the various ingredients and implements and put them away.

Elizabeth had never believed in magic before, but could not deny what she could see with her own eyes. There lay Erik, still unconscious, but now he was breathing easier, and his coloring was returning. Tears threatened to break forth, and she wiped them away before speaking. "We must tell the others," she said, her voice choked with emotion.

Talibah took Elizabeth by the hand. "His danger is not over, but he is more comfortable."

-0-0-0-

Later that night, Beth was sitting with Erik. They were alone. Outside, Safa and Ra'id were sitting by the campfire, while A'aqil was preparing a place for Talibah to sleep. She chuckled to herself as she heard the old woman ordering A'aqil about. It seemed that the rascal had finally met his match.

"You can't take care of him if you let yourself get run down," Talibah said, bringing in a tray of food.

"I'm not…"

"Please, don't tell me you are not hungry."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and smelled the tempting aroma of barley soup.

"It isn't much," the old woman said. "A little soup, some unleavened bread, but the stomach will appreciate it."

Elizabeth accepted the food, remembering how her maiden aunts used to fuss over her if she did not eat. She suspected Talibah would be just as adamant. But her attention was drawn away from food when she heard Erik murmur something incomprehensible in his sleep. Perhaps it was their voices, or maybe something else, but whatever the reason, he appeared restless.

She turned to Talibah. "I saw a noticeable improvement earlier. The paralysis had gone away, and his breathing was normal, but now," she said, worry in her voice. "But now, I'm not so sure."

"Not to worry," said Talibah. "He is fighting off the poison. It is not his destiny to die here. Remember, I have seen the future."

In spite of Erik's near-miraculous improvement, Elizabeth still wasn't convinced that Talibah could actually see the future. Fortunetelling was stuff and nonsense, nothing more. Yet part of her wanted to believe.

"Is this the bad news you saw for me?" she asked.

Talibah closed her eyes. For a moment, it is as if she were once again in a trance. "No," she said at last. "I fear there is still more misery in your future."

"Can you tell me about my husband?"

Talibah shook her head. "His path is dark, clouded."

"Is he…is he alive?"

"I cannot say."

"Cannot? Or will not?"

Erik suddenly shouted out, "Christine! Don't go!"

Elizabeth rushed to his side, once again taking his hand into hers and calming him. She thought he had woken up, but his eyes were still closed. At last, the regularity of his breaths told Elizabeth that whatever dream had troubled his sleep left him. But the name he had called out with such anguish wouldn't leave her.

"I wonder who Christine is?" she said, and she remembered the woman in the sketchbook. She turned to Talibah. "With all your knowledge, can you tell me who Christine is?"

"A woman who once broke his heart."

Elizabeth stared at Talibah and realized that not once had the crone made any kind of expression or comment about Erik's appearance. "His face, it doesn't bother you."

Talibah shook her head. "That is because I see past his face and into his heart."

-0-0-0-


	20. Bedside Confessions

Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 20  
Bedside Confessions

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_To sleep, perchance to dream.  
_**~William Shakespeare**

Two and a half days had passed since Erik's initial encounter with the scorpion, and although it had been agreed that everyone would take turns staying bedside, it was Elizabeth who ended up there the majority of the time. Not that she minded. If the truth were told, she wanted to, insisted on doing so and shooed away more than one well-intentioned offer to spell her, because as far as she was concerned, this whole mess in part her fault.

No, she hadn't stuck a scorpion in his tent, but if she hadn't sought out Erik while in Luxor, he would not be in this precarious position. She had slept little the past 48 hours, and her eyelids were heavy. She glanced around and gazed out the opened tent flap, admiring the western horizon, golden hues of the setting sun reflecting off the landscape, and found herself imagining what they would be doing if they were back in Luxor.

Safa would no doubt be preparing supper, while A'aqil would be taking care of whatever household duties were his responsibility. Perhaps he would be selling a genuine reproduction to some poor, unsuspecting tourist. That made her laugh, if only for a moment.

But what about Erik? If she hadn't pestered him about Leo, his shop would not have been ransacked, A'aqil wouldn't have been manhandled, and Erik would no doubt have been sitting in his courtyard at this moment, perhaps enjoying a cooling iced tea, instead of lying on his cot, sick.

By now, she had hoped that Erik would have awakened. Talibah reassured her, however, that all was as it should be, and had insisted that the crisis had passed, but Elizabeth wasn't so sure. That he was still unconscious troubled her. Her greatest fear was that he had slipped into a coma and would never wake up, in spite of the aged healer's insistence that to the contrary.

"His body needs to heal, and to do that, he needs sleep," Talibah said.

Elizabeth wasn't convinced. "I won't be persuaded about any of this until he opens his eyes and starts to complain about everything," she said, trying to be humorous and failing miserably.

Talibah only nodded and gave a sly grin. "I understand. A woman needs to watch over her man," she said and left the two of them alone, before Elizabeth could once again deny that Erik Rien was "her man."

Every time Erik made a move, Elizabeth had fretted. Most of the time, he appeared to be sleeping peaceably, but occasionally he made small, agitated motions. He hadn't uttered another word since he had shouted out the name of Christine, but Elizabeth suspected that the mysterious woman had once again returned to visit him in his dreams.

The sun set quickly in the desert, and within a few short minutes, darkness overtook the little camp. Erik's tent became a busy place. A'aqil came in and lit the camp lantern for her, inquired as to how their 'patient' was doing, and asked if there was anything he could do to help. Elizabeth on her part said no, and so satisfied, he left. Then Safa came by.

"But, Sitt, you have been here for hours. Please, you must rest. Go outside and get some fresh air. Have Ra'id bring you something to eat. Lie down by the campfire. We will all watch over you…and Master Erik. Trust us. We will take as good a care of him as anyone can."

But Elizabeth would not budge. "I need to stay here. He needs me here. He'll be expecting to see me…when he wakes up."

And so Safa excused herself and left Elizabeth alone with Erik.

_Elizabeth Cutteridge Brackenstall, how can you sit here and lie to yourself?_

She looked around and mumbled. "Now, you're hearing voices. Safa's right. You're tired." But still she didn't move.

_It's neither pity nor guilt that makes you stay here and you know it. There's only one reason you've spent all these hours at this man's side, nursing him, and that is because you have feelings for him._

"Yes," she admitted out loud. "Feelings a married woman should not have for a man who is not her husband."

A single tear trickled down her check, followed by another. Blast it all! Why did it have to be like this? If Erik had remained the crude, uncaring boor she once thought him to be, she wouldn't now be going through all this turmoil, torn and confused. But no. He had to be intelligent and witty…and charming when he wanted to be. And though he would deny it and point to his regrettable face, there was a charisma about as well him, a sort of magnetism to him that allowed her to see the whole man and not just that part which was marred. Looking down at his sleeping form, she realized that she no longer noticed the scars and misshapen flesh, but the face of a man.

_The man you love._

And even if she wanted to deny this truth, it would not matter, for this attraction was not one-sided. It was all too obvious that he was drawn to her as well. She remembered the conversations they'd had as their boat floated down the Nile, the drawing lessons, the time he'd comforted her during the windstorm, and later in camp, that night when they had revealed more about themselves than either had meant to.

"Why couldn't I have met you sooner, before I married Leo?" she asked, knowing there would not be an answer. What was it her father used to tell her about wishing for what could never be? If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side.

She took a deep breath as she tried to calm her tortured thoughts. She gazed longingly at Erik as he rested, pleased to note that the pasty, sickly hue was gone from his skin, that his color was more normal. His breathing was no longer ragged and when she touched his forehead, she found that his fever had broken and that his skin was cool to the touch. _No need risking a chill, not while he's still recovering_, she thought and pulled up the lightweight blanket and tucked it around him. Reaching out, she took Erik's hand in her own, gently squeezing it.

"You're not going to believe me when I tell you this," she said to him as he lay there, insensible, "but you're a good man. Oh, maybe you've been a scoundrel in the past, but not anymore. A scoundrel would never have done the many kind and thoughtful things that you've done. A scoundrel would not have people who cared for him the way Safa and A'aqil care for you. And a scoundrel wouldn't make me want to care for him, the way I want to care for you."

Erik's head moved slightly, and for a moment, she feared that he was waking. Dear God, had he been listening after all? Had he heard her bedside confession? She held her breath, waiting for him to open his eyes, and only slowly let it escape when she was certain that he still slept.

"I'm a fool to admit these things, even to myself," she said softly, releasing his hand and reaching over to brush her fingers lightly across his brow. "So, this will be our agreement. I will say no more on the matter, and you will pretend that you never heard me." She paused a moment, as if waiting for a reply. "Very well, I'll take that as a yes."

She sat with her eyes closed for several minutes, and rubbed her temples. She had slept little these past two days, and fatigue was catching up with her. Getting up from her seat, she stretched and walked about, easing muscles that had become stiff and cramped during her bedside vigil. Safa was right. She needed to rest. A low rumble came from the pit of her stomach, and she smiled. She needed to eat something, too.

Poking her head out the tent flap, she called to Safa. A few minutes later, the young Nubian safely ensconced at her master's side, and her own stomach satisfied, Elizabeth stumbled drowsily to her tent. She was sure she would be unable to sleep, not with her mind in such a tumult, but exhaustion claimed her in the end, and having barely closed her eyes, she slept.

-0-0-0

Erik woke up and found himself in a darkened room. Odd. Had he been brought home? Thankfully, it wasn't completely black. Someone had left a candle burning, but it was low and guttering, ready to go out. He looked around. The room looked familiar, yet…not. Slowly, he rose from his bed, surprised to find he was completely dressed. In a rather antiquated black frock coat, vest and trousers at that.

Making his way on slightly unsteady legs, he started to investigate. He looked for a window, hoping to see where he was, and whether it was day or night, but found none. The room began to spin, and he braced himself by putting a hand against the wall and waited until the vertigo passed. He resumed his explorations, and at last found a door. Turning the knob, he exited the room and found himself in an unlit corridor.

He stood still for a number of seconds, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. His ears, too, became attuned to the silence, and in the distance, he heard the faint sounds of someone crying. It was a woman. Carefully, he made his way down to corridor and came to another door. Grabbing hold of the knob, he pulled the door open and found himself greeted by the sight of a thousand burning candles.

He was back in his lair! But, how could this be? Hélène had told him the place had been virtually destroyed, yet what he saw now was even more extravagant than the prop-filled grotto he had called home for years.

"Erik!"

A woman's voice was calling to him, the sudden sound causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. He turned around and saw Christine sitting in a straight-back chair, still dressed in her peasant-girl costume from the evening's opera and her hands tied behind her back. Walking over to her, he stood and glared down at her. "You have until eleven o'clock to decide if it will be life or death!"

His brows knit together. Something was wrong. He examined his surroundings once more. There was the lake and the portcullis, both where they should be. And yes, the vicomte was there as well, bound to the gratings but remaining obligingly silent. Good. He didn't need to hear the boy whine about having tried and failed. Suddenly, the vertigo returned. Erik formed his hands into fists and buried them against his temples.

_Why am I here? This is my house, yet…it isn't. _

Christine stared up at him, struggling to loosen her bonds. On her forehead, Erik saw the ugly bruise that formed when she tried to take her life by smashing her head against the wall. He reached out and gently touched the purpling contusion. Everything seemed so familiar…yet it wasn't.

_This is not what happened, is it? _

Moving like an automaton, he walked behind her and untied her hands. Then he stood in front of her again. "I give you five minutes! Here," he said, removing something from the little bag of life and death, "here is the little bronze key that opens the two ebony caskets on the mantelpiece in the Louis-Philippe."

_What Louis-Philippe room?_

Then it occurred to him. This some sort of fever-induced dream. He looked around, and the lair melted and changed. Moments before, they were in the grotto; now, they were all in a bourgeoisie room inside a house. De Chagny was still there, too, only now he was held in place by a noose. He still didn't make any sounds, though, and for that, Erik was thankful.

"In one of the caskets," he instructed Christine, "you will find a scorpion. In the other, a grasshopper. Both are very cleverly imitated in Japanese bronze. These creatures will give me your answer. I will leave the room for five minutes. When I return, if you have turned the scorpion round, that will mean that you have said yes. The grasshopper will mean no."

He threw back his head and laughed like a drunken demon. "The grasshopper!" he cried, laughing hysterically. "Be careful of the grasshopper! A grasshopper does not only turn, it hops! It hops! And it hops jolly high!" He left the room, yet somehow was still there, aware of everything that was taking place and being said, and watched through the walls as Christine rose from the chair.

"Christine," cried Raoul, finding his voice at last. "Where are you going?"

She turned to face her fiancé, a look of stoic resolution on her tear-stained face. "Do not fear, Raoul. I'm going to turn the scorpion." She walked towards the mantle and put out her hand.

"No!" the vicomte screamed as he struggled against the noose, and then ceased his efforts as he discovered that the more he moved, the tighter the rope closed round his neck. "No! Don't touch it!"

"You do not understand, my love. It is the only way I can save you."

"Don't touch the scorpion!" he pleaded again.

"Wait, here he comes!" she called out, panic in her voice. "I hear him! Here he is!"

Erik returned, his mind a muddle of confusing thoughts.

_Where had I been?_

He came up to Christine, but did not speak. He glared at her, taking note of her fear-filled eyes. For the first time, he saw not the Christine of his dreams, but the young girl she was, forlorn and utterly confused, looking like a lost waif. What had he ever seen in her?

"Erik! It is I!" she cried, tears trailing down her cheeks. "It's Christine! Don't you know me?"

"So," he said dully, "you are not dead in there? Well, then, see that you keep quiet."

"Who are you talking to, Erik?"

He shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know. Someone…someone I knew a long time ago." He turned back at Christine, and then stared at the two ebony caskets. "Mademoiselle has not touched the scorpion," he said with great deliberation and composure. "She has not touched the grasshopper, either, but it is not too late to do the right thing."

He walked over to the two boxes. "There, I have opened the caskets without a key, for I am a trap-door lover and I open and shut _what_ I please and _as_ I please. I have opened the little ebony caskets. Will Mademoiselle look at the little dears inside? Aren't they pretty?"

"Erik," she pleaded, her hysteria growing. "Why are you talking like this? What has happened to you?"

Raoul remained still, gasping for breath, unable to loosen the noose. He could only watch and stare in disbelief at the tableau playing itself out before him.

"If you turn the grasshopper," Erik said, "we shall all be blown up. There is enough gunpowder under our feet to blow up a whole quarter of Paris. If you turn the scorpion, all that powder will be soaked and drowned. Mademoiselle, to celebrate our wedding, you shall make a very handsome present to a few hundred Parisians who are at this moment applauding a poor masterpiece of Meyerbeer's. You shall make them a present of their lives, for, with your own fair hands, you shall turn the scorpion. And merrily, merrily, we will be married!"

"Erik," she shrieked, "you've gone mad!"

He ignored her entreaties. "If, in two minutes, Mademoiselle, you have not turned the scorpion, I shall turn the grasshopper, and the grasshopper, I tell you, _hops jolly high!_"

The two of them remained motionless, staring at one another. The only sound was that of the clock ticking. After what seemed an eternity, Erik broke the silence. "The two minutes are passed. Good-bye, Christine. Hop, grasshopper!" He placed his hand on the bronze figurine.

"Erik," cried Christine, "do you swear to me, Monster, do you swear to me that the scorpion is the one to turn?

"Yes, to hop at our wedding."

"Ah, you see! You said, 'to hop'!"

"At our wedding, ingenuous child!"

"I'm not a child. Stop treating me like one!" she screamed.

But Erik ignored her. "The scorpion opens the ball, but that will do!"

"Erik!"

"Enough!"

"Erik! Look! I have turned the scorpion! Look at me, Erik!"

Erik looked at her, but it wasn't Christine standing before him. It was Elizabeth. He was no longer under the opera house, but in the desert. He looked at Elizabeth's hand. She was holding a deathstalker scorpion.

"I have chosen the scorpion, Erik," she said calmly as the beast raised its stinger into the air and drove it into the soft, sweet flesh of her wrist.

"_NO!"_

-0-0-0-

Erik's eyes shot open. "Elizabeth!" he shouted. Or at least tried to shout. What came out sounded more like the croaking of a frog, and was just as intelligible. He tried to sit up, but was too weak.

"Oh, Master!" Safa cried out. Before Erik could wave her away, the girl her arms around him, hugging him tightly and burying her face against his chest as she shed tears of joy. "Allah be praised, you're alive," she kept saying, over and over.

After several uncomfortable moments, Erik was finally able to make his voice work. Gently, he attempted to push her away of him. "What's been going on?" he managed to ask between her sobs. "Have I been ill?"

"Oh, Master," she said, untangling herself from him, her words coming out in a rush. "We thought you were going to die! But the old woman, Talibah, she saved your life."

Erik's head hurt from all the confusion. "What old woman? What are you talking about? And how long was I asleep?" He wanted to ask more questions, but he was too drained and feeble. He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his, and realized that he was uncovered. Not only had he been stripped down to his under drawers, but his face was exposed for all to see. He snuck a look at Safa, waiting for her to start screaming, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the silly girl could not remove the grin from her face.

"You're…you're looking at me," Erik said brusquely.

"Yes, Master." Her grin got bigger.

"But…but, I don't understand."

"It's all right, Master. We _all_ know what you look like."

"All?" Erik exclaimed, his face burning with shame and humiliation. "How could you do this? How could you allow…?" He couldn't finish his questions. The enormity of what she said weighed down upon him, and he found it hard to talk. "Safa, I am still your employer," he struggled to say, "and I want you to bring me my clothes."

"Your clothes, Master? But why? You're still ill."

But Erik insisted, so she handed him a shirt. She dutifully watched as he struggled to sit up, afraid that if she offered to help him, he would take it as an insult. At last, she could bear to watch his struggles no further. She walked over to him and took the shirt from his trembling hands. "Let me help you."

"It's not right for you to do this," Erik said. "It is against your faith. You are not my wife or relative."

"All will be right. Allah will understand that I do this for you out of compassion." She helped him slip the shirt on, but suggested that he leave it unbuttoned. "You will be more comfortable in this way." Then she brought over the _keffiyeh_, deftly arranging the cloth so that it covered his head, and tucked the ends in such a way that the worst part of his face was covered.

The expression on his face told her that even these small exertions had been too much for him, and she tsked like a worrisome mother. "You need to rest, Master. But trust me on this. No one among us looks down upon you because of your face. You must believe this. Now, if you promise me that you will go back to sleep, I shall get the Sitt so that she will be here with you when you wake up again."

Sadness filled Erik's eyes as he looked around. "I had hoped that she would have been here," he said softly.

"But she has been, Master. Every hour of every day and every night, she was here—by your side. It was only late last night that we were finally able to have her to get some sleep. That's where she is now—in her tent, resting. She's going to be angry with me for not getting her right away, as soon as you woke up, but she was so tired, I thought it best to let her sleep."

"Then…how long have I been sick?"

She stood up, put her hands on her hips, and forced herself to look stern. "Nearly three days, Master. But we can catch you up on everything later. For now? You rest."

From the tone of her voice, he knew she meant business. And he allowed himself a small grin. "Yes, Mother," he said, and closed his eyes.

-0-0-0-

The next time Erik opened his eyes, he found Elizabeth sitting by his side, looking like an angel of mercy. He wanted to say something to her, to thank her for how she had cared for him, but instead, the first words out of his mouth were, "Are you all right?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I?" Then she bestowed upon him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "Yes," she answered. "I'm fine. Why ever would you ask?"

"I don't know. This will sound ridiculous, but…I had a dream while I was sick. In it, you were stung by a scorpion."

"You may rest easy on that count, as I have seen neither hair nor hide of any scorpion, other than the one A'aqil disposed of. You, on the other hand, gave us all a terrible scare. And now, it is my turn to ask how _you_ are feeling."

"Awful," he admitted, grateful for the _keffiyeh_ so that Elizabeth could not see the look of abject defeat on his face. The elation he had felt upon first seeing her was wearing off. All he could think about now was that she had seen his face—his hideous, inhuman face. "Safa told me…she said, you've seen me. That you've all seen me."

By "me," Elizabeth knew he meant his face. She squared her shoulders and set her jaw, speaking carefully. "Yes, this is so."

"Why did you stay?" he asked, bitterness seeping into his voice. "You and Ra'id should have rushed back to Amarna. Safa and A'aqil would have remained. After all, I pay them enough."

"That's not fair, and you know it. This has nothing to do with money. They were not about to abandon you while you were ill, and neither was I." She saw the pained looked in his eyes, the same look she had seen when he had opened up to her and told her of his unbearable past. Too much had happened in too short a time. He needed time to adjust. "We can discuss this later, if we must. In the meantime, you need some nourishment. You haven't taken any in days."

She went over to the portable desk in his tent and brought over a tray that had been sitting there. "Here," she said, placing it on a stool next to her. "We have some clear broth, a little bread, and some tea."

"Leave it," he said, trying to wave her efforts aside. "I'll eat later, when I'm alone. There's no need for you to stay and watch me." He took the spoon from her, then tried to prop himself up on shaky elbows, but the effort was too much for him and he fell back on his pillows.

"Look at you," said Elizabeth. "You're still trembling from the poison. You can barely lift a spoon. How are you going to feed yourself?"

"You needn't concern yourself," he answered roughly. "I'll find a way."

She gently pried the spoon from his grip, considered what to do, and fell back on what she knew best—being practical. "Now, we can do this one of two ways. You can allow me to help you eat and accept that yes, I've seen your face and agree that it is…unfortunate, or I can call Ra'id and A'aqil in here to hold you down while I force feed you."

"You wouldn't," he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Are you willing to take that chance?" She picked up the bowl of broth and brought a spoonful of the clear liquid to his mouth, waiting patiently for him to pull away the scarf. The two of them remained motionless for several seconds, each waiting for the other to give in. "I can stay like this as long as you can, Mr. Rien," she said.

"I'm not a child," he said, almost pouting.

"Then don't act like one."

Reluctantly, he tugged the scarf away and accepted the broth, allowing her to feed him. "I still don't understand why…," he started to say between mouthfuls, but before he could finish, Safa stuck her head in.

"I thought I heard voices," she said cheerily. Then she ducked back out, and called out to Ra'id and A'aqil. "Come! He's awake! He's awake!"

Erik laid his head back and groaned. "Good grief. Am I to be spared no indignity?"

Elizabeth chuckled as she helped him re-cover his face. "Brace yourself," she said. "You have visitors."

-0-0-0-


	21. Recovery

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 21  
Recovery**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Death is not the greatest loss in life.  
The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.  
_**~Norman Cousins**

-0-0-0-

Erik couldn't understand how so many people could fit inside one small tent. In addition to himself and Elizabeth, there was Safa who holding hands with Ra'id, A'aqil who was keeping an eye on Safa and Ra'id, and the old witch from the fortunetelling incident back in Amarna. It was difficult to acknowledge that all these people had seen his face and still were here by their own choice, apparently not holding his ugliness against him. (All the same, he kept his face covered.) Even harder to accept was that Ra'id had knelt by his bedside and abjectly craved 'his master's' forgiveness.

"For what?" Erik asked, confused by the man's actions.

"For all that I said while you were ill." Ra'id went on to explain in painful detail his initial reaction to what he had seen, the awful things he'd said to Safa, and his ultimate realization that he had been terribly wrong.

"You didn't have to mention any of this," said Erik, strangely comforted that this one person had been taken aback by his face. At least the man's reaction had been normal. "I would never have known."

"But I would."

"Very well, then," said Erik, eager to change the topic. "Consider yourself forgiven."

-0-0-0-

Throughout all the well wishing, Elizabeth kept her eyes on her patient, watching for the first signs of fatigue. When she noticed that Erik was having trouble keeping his eyes open, she knew it was time to act. "That's enough for now," she said to everyone, shooing them towards the exit. "There will be plenty of time to continue this at a later time, after Mr. Rien has rested."

Erik shot her a look of gratitude and would have silently mouthed the words "Thank you" had his lower face not been covered.

The quartet were all but out the door when a grinning Safa popped her head back inside. "We will be back later with your dinner, Master. I have a surprise for you!"

"Not fried scorpions, I hope," said Erik, trying to make a joke.

Safa turned to her brother who was standing behind her and smacked his shoulder. "You told him!"

The two continued bantering back and forth, forcing Elizabeth to physically usher them out. "That will be enough of your horseplay. I'm sure there are matters around camp that require your attention. Watering and feeding the animals, perhaps?"

That taken care of, she returned to Erik and found him curled up on his right side, with his back to her. "What is the matter?" she asked, frowning.

"Nothing." He paused before admitting, "My stomach hurts a little."

"We should take it easy with food for a few days. Does anything else hurt?"

"Not really," he said. There was another pause, and he said, "My legs."

She arched an eyebrow, mentally shaking her head. Getting Erik to admit what was hurting him was like pulling teeth. She rolled her eyes towards the canvas ceiling.

_Men!_

"And?"

"My…shoulders. And my head."

She found her medical kit and dug some tablets out of it. Then she poured a glass of water. She tapped him on the shoulder, and when he rolled over, handed him the medication and water. "I think we could try some of the analgesics we brought with us." Grabbing the camp chair, she pulled it closer to his bed and sat down, waiting for him to take his medicine.

"No," he said rather more sharply than he had intended, staring at the pills. He looked at Elizabeth and saw her frown, and added, more gently, "These are not necessary. I'll be fine. I just need some rest." He gave the pills and glass back to her.

"Very well." She set them on the small camp desk and returned to her seat. "Then…let me…," and she reached out, slipping her hand across his stomach.

"What are you doing?" he said, startled by her actions. What did the woman think she was doing, laying her hand on him like this? Thank God, he'd had Safa give him his shirt. And then, as her hand remained there, he found himself surprised by the strange and comforting warmth he felt where her hand rested, permeating through the cloth. He kept waiting for her to stop, to pull back, but she didn't.

"My father used to do this for me when I was a child," she explained. "When my stomach ached. The warmth will make it feel better. A hot water bottle would be more effective, but we don't have one."

Her hand never left his stomach, and eventually Erik began to relax. "It's better now," he said, trying not to sound so irritable. "You needn't touch me. I know it…it can't be pleasant."

"Oh pish!" she said, moving her hand from his stomach and placing it on his forehead – what she could reach of it. She nodded approvingly. "The fever is gone. That's a good sign. You must rest so that it won't come back."

"I'm trying to," he groused some more. "I mean, all I've done for days is lie here."

"There's no hurry."

"But your husband…"

"My husband can take care of himself. Until you are back on your feet, you are our first priority."

Erik sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

"That's it. Rest now, Erik. Sleep." As he closed his eyes, she began to hum.

"What's that?" he asked.

"An old Cotswold lullaby."

"Is that where you're from, the Cotswolds?"

"Yes. I grew up in a small village there with my father and two aunts."

"What is it like?"

"Oh, quite the opposite of Egypt. It's a verdant world, with gently rolling hillsides or wolds as they are called, crisscrossed with rivers, meadows and beech woods. And as you walk across the hills, you find yourself coming upon sleepy little villages that have stood for hundreds of years."

Erik closed his eyes and tried to see the place through her eyes. What would it have been like, to grow up in such pleasant surroundings, with people who loved you? She started to hum again, and he smiled. No, she was no Christine. Her voice was nothing special; she would never have made it as a singer on the stage. What she lacked in professional polish, however, Elizabeth Brackenstall made up for in the kindness that came through in her voice. He looked up at her and stifled a yawn.

"You do realize that no one has ever, _ever_ done this for me. Take care of me, I mean. Not if it meant…touching me. Not even my own mother…."

"Never?" she asked incredulously. She ducked her head, grateful he could not see the tears in her eyes. "Then it's about time you let someone care for you, for a change," she said, reassuring him. She softly hummed some more.

"Thank you…," he said, his voice slurred and heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you for…everything." And he drifted off to sleep.

Elizabeth remained by his side long after he had fallen asleep, watching over him as he rested. She stared at him and wondered, "Never been touched, never cared for…believing your face to be too terrible to reveal? What kind of life have you known?"

And she considered the profound humanity in him--the artist's soul he kept carefully hidden--and marveled that it had not withered and died inside him from want of care.

-0-0-0-

Over the next few days, Erik continued to regain his strength, though occasionally there were minor setbacks such as when he found himself having to lean on someone's arm (usually Elizabeth's) for stability.

Even though it was now official -- that everyone in the search party knew what he looked like -- Erik continued to keep his face covered whenever he stepped out of the confines and privacy of his tent. Since he had come to Egypt five years ago, A'aqil had been the only person to whom he had ever shown his face, and then only in the solitude of his house. Now, it seemed as if the whole world knew! No matter how accepting they appeared to be, no matter how understanding they seemed, the concept that people could know what he looked like and not scream or run was beyond his experience. He wondered if perhaps it had something to do with their having known him before seeing his face. Whatever the reason, it left him feeling strangely out of sorts.

Elizabeth had persuaded him to that it would be all right to leave his face uncovered when no one was around, or when the two of them were alone, but even this was difficult. "Surely," she had said, "it is more comfortable to breathe without having fabric over your nose and mouth."

Erik hitched a shoulder, trying to act nonchalant about the matter. "The Arabs in the desert don't seem to mind."

"But, that's different."

"It is? In what way?"

She didn't have an answer, and that was the end of that.

On her part, Elizabeth could see the struggle Erik was going through. It was, in a manner of speaking, written all over his face. The truth behind the enigma that had been Erik Rien was finally revealing itself -- the bouts of anger, bitterness and depression that came over him for no apparent reason. Now, she was beginning to understand. It was his face.

Even though she had become accustomed to it, having spent almost two and a half days sitting with him while he'd been sick, she understood why he chose to continue hiding it. While close friends might, in time, learn to take no notice of his appearance, she doubted the public in general would.

Her mind kept harkening back to his remarks that night he had opened up to her. She could only imagine the pain and humiliation he'd lived with throughout so much of his life, and wondered how many times he had walked down a street, only to be gawked at…or worse.

And what about those other revelations about being kept in a cage and put on display? It made her ill to think of it…and angry. He had said he had been taken in by gypsies, treated like like a commodity to be traded and sold. How could anyone do such a thing to a child?

Surely, if she and Leo had been blessed with one of their own, and if that child had been born with a defect, she would have loved and cared for it regardless. The only conclusion she could reach is that the people who took him in must have suffered from some sort of deficiency.

Her heart went out to the man, but it was more than pity or compassion. It was admiration for a man who had endured trials and travails no person should have ever had to deal with, and who still managed to make a success of his life. No doubt, he would dismiss such thoughts with a wave of his hand and deny that his achievements. But she knew better, and perhaps, in time, she would help him see this for himself.

-0-0-0-

"We should prepare to continue our search tomorrow," Erik said.

Supper was over, and everyone was sitting around the campfire, enjoying the cool night air. Erik had been awake for two days, and was already feeling the boredom that often accompanied convalescence – well enough to want to do more, but too weak to do it.

"What?" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Are you daft? You nearly died. The first day you woke up, you couldn't even feed yourself. You still have not regained all your strength, and even now, someone had to help you out here so you could enjoy the pleasures of the night air."

"By tomorrow, I'll feel better."

A'aqil let out a loud snort, while Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Men! You all think you are invincible. Do you think Talibah here went to all the trouble to heal you, only for you to have a relapse because you're stubborn?"

The old woman had been sitting off to the side, not taking part in the conversation but listening and watching all the same. When she heard her name mentioned, she nodded her head. "The Sitt is right. You are not ready to do anything strenuous. It takes time for the poison to work its way out of the body."

"How long?" Erik asked.

"Usually two or three days."

He turned to Elizabeth. "There you have it. Tomorrow will be the third day. We've already wasted enough time. I'm sure that you are eager to resume the search for your husband."

"Don't use Leo as an excuse for doing something foolish, Mr. Rien." Elizabeth snapped. "Wherever my wayward husband is, he'll keep. It's been almost a month since he left," she added. "I'm sure he's forgotten all about the fact that his wife might be worried about him."

Talibah gave a little nod. "This is true."

Elizabeth ignored the old woman's remark, while Erik looked over at the old crone. "You're still here?" he asked. "I'd thought Ra'id would have taken you back home by now."

"Nonsense, Master Erik," piped in Safa, who as usual these days was sitting next to Ra'id. "You may need her again. Besides, the grandmother is in no hurry to return. She likes being taken care of. She has A'aqil under her thumb." She shot a wicked grin at her brother.

"I thought maybe her _abilities_ would be needed elsewhere."

"You don't believe in the grandmother's gifts?" Safa gave Erik a reprimanding scowl.

"Hush, little sister," A'aqil admonished. "_She_ may be a fraud, but _he_ is still your master."

Safa ignored her brother's warning. "And after she saved your life with her healing skills?"

Erik eyed the old woman suspiciously. "I didn't say that I questioned her skills as a healer. It's her so-called ability to see the future that I have difficulty accepting. I spent too many years living with gypsies, seeing first-hand how fortunetellers and _fakirs_ dupe their audiences."

"You wouldn't cast out a poor, old woman, would you?" Talibah squawked. "A woman with no family, no place to go? A woman who saved your life?"

Elizabeth smiled at the old woman who with her stubborn ways reminded her once again of her maiden aunts. "We have plenty of room for her in our tent and she's very quiet. You'll never know she's here."

Erik raised an eyebrow. _"Our_ tent?" he said, a touch of humor returning to his voice.

"I'm referring to the tent I share with Safa," Elizabeth said, flustered at his teasing suggestion that the two of them were sharing one.

This time, it was A'aqil's turn to protest. "What do you mean, we won't even know she's here? Speak for yourself! I will know she is here! She has me running around all day and half the night, fetching and carrying for her as though I am _her_ servant!"

Erik knew what Safa hadn't said, that the old woman preferred the meager comforts of their camp to the squalid village. "I am not turning anybody out. There's no need to send her back to the village. She can return with us after we find Mr. Brackenstall."

"You are very kind, young man," said Talibah. "Very kind. You won't regret this, I assure you. Tonight, I will make a potion that will take away your bad dreams and let you rest. It's a potion that will show you your heart's true desire."

Erik heaved a sigh. "I'm regretting it already. Please, make yourself comfortable." He got up to leave, when his right leg gave out.

Elizabeth rushed to his side, offering to serve as his prop. "You were saying about being ready to resume our search? It's from the scorpion poison," she said, referring to his leg. She put an arm around his waist, encouraging him to lean against her. "Is this better?" she asked.

"Yes," he said quietly, looking into her eyes. "Much better."

"That one, he has much sorrow," the old woman noted as Erik limped away, with Elizabeth tucked under his arm for support.

A'aqil agreed. "It is complicated."

Talibah cocked her head. "And you? What of you, young man? Don't you have a sweetheart waiting for you? Let me see your palm." She reached out for A'aqil's hand, only to have him snatch it back.

"Fie on you!"

"Go on, Brother!" urged Safa, letting out a giggle. "Let her tell you the future!

"I don't need an old witch to tell me the future," he snarled under his breath.

"Best be kind to me, young man," Talibah warned. "Else I shall be tempted to turn you into a toad."

A'aqil rushed off on the pretext of looking after the animals, wondering if the old woman really had such powers, while Safa laughed.

-0-0-0-

Historic Note: Analgesics such as aspirin have been around for a long time. A French chemist, Charles Frederic Gerhardt, was the first to prepare acetylsalicylic acid (named aspirin in 1899) in 1853.


	22. Death Among the Tombs

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 22  
Death Among the Tombs**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

The hour of departure arrives, and we go our ways--  
I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows.  
**~Socrates**

While Erik spent the next several days recovering in camp, grumbling over his enforced inactivity, A'aqil and Ra'id scouted ahead. Safa and Talibah would not allow him to help with chores, and so he spent much of his time with Elizabeth. Sometimes he would bring out his sketchbook and there would be more drawing lessons, but more often than not, they talked. Their conversations frequently centered on her work as an Egyptologist. Always eager to learn, Erik felt that an improvement in his own knowledge on the subject would reap benefits in his antiquities business.

One day, Talibah came forward and presented Elizabeth with what at first glance looked like a small brick or a hardened lump of clay. Elizabeth saw the marks covering the surface and immediately recognized that this was an ancient artifact of importance.

"You study the ancient ways," the old woman said. "I found this many months ago while digging the ancient mud-brick we use as fertilizer."

Elizabeth accepted the cuneiform tablet. Erik looked over her shoulder, intrigued by the rows of wedge-shaped indentations. "You are familiar with this?"

"Yes. It appears to be Akkadian, a form of ancient Babylonian."

"And you can read it?" To Erik, the thought that anyone could read a tablet that looked as though a row of chickens had walked over it while it had still been wet was nothing less than amazing. At least the hieroglyphs of the ancient Egyptians had a pictorial quality to them, making them small pieces of art.

"I cannot read it at first glance," she said with a little grin, "but with time and my journal for reference, I can come up with at least a rough translation."

She handed Erik the tablet so he could have a better look at it. It fit easily in his hands, and had a kind of pillow shape to it. "Why would we be finding a Babylonian tablet here at Amarna?" he asked, returning it to her.

"Babylonian was the _lingua franca_ of the day," she explained. "Diplomatic correspondence was often carried out in this language. If you have some paper and a pencil, I'll go and get the couple of reference books I brought along and see if I can tell you what this says."

For the next several hours, Elizabeth worked on translating the tablet, giving Erik a crash course in cuneiform along the way, explaining that it was one of the earliest forms of writing. She appeared to enjoy taking on the role of teacher, to relish having a student eager to learn from her. It was a far cry from being ignored and relegated to the background, as had become her customary place as Mrs. Leonidas Brackenstall. She was startled out of a momentary reverie by Erik's insistent questioning.

"But, how did they come up with these wedges?" he asked.

"They actually started out as pictographs, similar to the Egyptian hieroglyphics. Over time, the pictures were simplified and became more abstract, eventually becoming these symbols." She drew several examples, showing how a simple drawing of a man drinking water turned into a series of lines. "This particular form of writing was created by pressing a wedge-shaped stylus into a damp clay tablet. In fact, cuneiform comes from the Latin and means wedge writing."

"But how did something written in Babylonian end up here?"

"At the time that this city flourished," she explained, "Egypt had many holdings in Syria and Palestine. They had diplomatic ties with the Assyrians, the Mitanni, the Arzawa, the Alashiya of Cyprus and the kingdom of the Hittites, which was near Anatolia. As Amarna was Egypt's capitol, it was only natural that any official correspondence would be brought here. If we had the time and resources to carry out a full-scale excavation of this site, I would not be surprised if we found a royal archive. But that will have to wait for another day. For now, if you'll give me just a few more minutes, I may have something for you."

At last, she was able to give them a rendering of the first few lines, and read them aloud:

"_To Naphururiya, king of Egypt, my brother, say: thus speaks Burnaburiash, king of Karduniash, your brother. I am well. To you, your land, your house, your wives your children, your nobles, your horses, your chariots, many greetings!"_

Erik had to admit that he was impressed. "You were able to get that from those stick-like marks? You are a very talented woman, Mrs. Brackenstall."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Rien," she said, basking in his praise and once again thinking…_if only_.

-0-0-0-

One evening, Ra'id and A'aqil returned to report that a couple hours or so from their camp, near the base of the cliffs where the north tombs were located, they had at last come upon something of interest—the remains of a camp that was perhaps a month old. This particular group of tombs had been next on their list to investigate, before Erik's encounter with the scorpion had held things up. The two men went on to say that there were no signs of recent activity—no tracks left by people or pack animals—nor did they check the tombs other than to take a cursory look inside the outer chambers. All agreed, though, that this was good news; that it indicated they were still on the right track.

All except Elizabeth. "If the campsite is old and there's nobody around, shouldn't we move on?" she asked.

Erik disagreed. "No. We should thoroughly check it out, regardless of how long it's been there. It's possible there could be some clue that can help us locate your husband. At the very least, it may rule out that he's been here at all."

Elizabeth was forced to agree that Erik's reasoning made sense. "Then when should we leave?"

The effects of the scorpion were all but gone. Only the occasional tingling in his extremities remained, and even this was lessening as the days went by. In other words, he was ready to resume normal activities. Sitting around doing nothing was never Erik's idea of time well spent. "Since the location is a few hours ride from here, I would suggest that we go first thing in the morning," he said, working hard to keep his conflicting emotions in check.

The announcement of the find brought about a subtle change in the demeanor of the party, especially in Elizabeth and Erik. During his recovery, the bonds between them had grown ever stronger, but now with the prospect of Leo Brackenstall returning to the fold, both knew this could not continue. Erik noticed the change in Elizabeth's expression.

"I suspect that you will be happy to be reunited with your husband after all this time," he said.

"Yes, I shall be," she replied, the sadness in her voice at odds with what she was saying. "I know that you and Leo will be great friends."

Erik remembered the young man from his visit to the antique shop, his brash demeanor rubbing Erik the wrong way. He doubted he would ever be great friends with Leonidas Brackenstall. The man was a fool, rushing off in search of buried treasure while leaving behind the greatest treasure a man could have—a woman who loved him.

He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, his thoughts lingering on their imminent separation, when A'aqil interrupted them to ask whether they should move their camp. In the end, it was decided to keep their main base where it was. At least here, they had the well with its water, the remains of the farm buildings, and they were closer to the village should the need arise to send for anything.

Elizabeth started fidgeting, trying to work off a growing feeling of anxiety. For the first time, she was pondering the unthinkable "What if…." She hesitated, not wanting to give word to her worst fears.

"Yes?" Erik urged gently. "You were saying?"

"What if the reason I haven't heard from Leo is not that he doesn't want to contact me, but that he can't? What if something has happened to him?" _Or worse_, she thought.

Erik didn't reply right away. He didn't want to admit that this very thought had been nagging at the back of his mind for days now. Leonidas Brackenstall may have been a spoiled young man who was a bit envious of his wife's abilities when it came to Egyptology, but Erik did not want to believe the young man to be that mean-spirited. He wanted to give Brackenstall credit for being at least nominally caring, that the young man was not the sort to completely abandon his wife, especially one as attractive as Elizabeth. If she loved him, then Brackenstall must have some redeeming qualities; otherwise, Erik could not bear the thought of her in his arms. He had to believe the young man was not a complete fool—for Elizabeth's sake.

-0-0-0-

That evening, Talibah looked at the faces round the campfire. The young Nubian girl, Safa, sat near her betrothed, the two of them casting small smiles at each other when they thought no one was looking. Silly children. As if anyone could miss their besotted looks.

The Master and the Sitt were also sharing glances, but not the sort that lovers shared. Theirs were the looks of worry and concern, and of emotions they dared not bring out into the open.

The old woman screwed her face as she puzzled over the matter. Should she tell the Englishwoman what she saw when she scattered the shards and bones and looked into the future? Should she tell say that after the heartache, true love would find her? But whether it would be with her missing husband or the Frenchman, Talibah could not know.

When she looked into the future, she saw only generalities, not specifics. She could tell a woman that in time, she would find her heart's desire. What she could not tell that woman was with whom. Not that Talibah would have revealed this at any rate. Sometimes, it is worse to know what is to come than to remain blissfully ignorant, because regardless of how one tries to influence the future, nothing can be done to change it. What is meant to be…will be.

A sly grin crept over her face as she looked at A'aqil. The man was handsome and intelligent, but far too impertinent for his own good. She chuckled to herself. What that young whelp needed was to be to be brought down a peg or two.

"Granny," said A'aqil, breaking into her thoughts. When she didn't respond right away, he remained standing, waiting.

She looked up at him, his face earnest for a change. What was he up to? She let him stand for several seconds, then decided it was time to reply. "What do you want?" she asked, blunt and to the point.

He sputtered and fumbled, feeling ill at ease. "I was wondering…," he said, then hesitated. He hated the idea of being beholden to the old witch, but he needed to know. "I mean…is it possible that you could cast a spell so that I might see my own true love?"

"What?" she all but shouted. "You want me to cast a spell for you? You, who have done nothing but disparage my skills?"

"Would it help if I apologized?" he offered sheepishly.

"Maybe. For a start."

"Then, you will do this for me?"

She considered several possibilities, then grinned to herself. She knew exactly what to do. "Yes, young man. I can cast a spell for you. I can cast a spell for all of you." She saw the others turn and look at her. "Yes, I will do this for all of you. I will send you dreams that will show you your heart's desire. Gather round." She looked at A'aqil. "I will need some papyrus, a lamp, some oil, matches, ink, and a writing instrument."

A'aqil looked to Erik. "Do we have any papyrus, Master?"

Erik nodded. "Yes, in my chest is some. You may use a sheet." He was as curious as everyone else as to what the old woman had in mind.

The Nubian rushed to Erik's tent and brought back the desired items. "Here, Granny."

"Call her 'grandmother'," Safa hissed. "Show some respect."

A'aqil shot his sister a look telling her to mind her own business.

The old woman took the ink and pen and began writing on the papyrus.

Elizabeth was surprised that the old woman could both read and write, as the concept of educating females in this land was practically unheard of. She suspected that if Talibah ever told her life's story, it would be a tale as fascinating as was the woman herself. She watched the woman's steady hand as she wrote out names that Elizabeth recognized as belonging to deities who were called upon by the ancients to help reveal the future: _Armiuth, Lailamchouch, Arsenophrephren, Phtha, _and_ Archentechtha_.

When she finished, Talibah folded the papyrus many times and made it into a wick. She placed the wick in the lamp, poured the oil over it and lit it. Looking at their eager faces, she said to them all, "For this to work, you must do the following. Do not touch any food or drink before going to bed. Approach the lamp and repeat seven times the formula I shall say to you. When you've finished, extinguish it and lie down to sleep."

"Must everyone do this?" asked A'aqil.

"Those of you who want to dream of your heart's desire, yes. Otherwise, have something to eat, drink some water, and go to bed."

Erik fought back the urge to laugh out loud. The old woman knew her trade; that much was clear.

Elizabeth glanced over at Erik. "Do you want to dream of your heart's desire?"

He shrugged. "Do you?"

"I'll do this…if you will."

This time he did laugh. She was actually daring him! "Very well." He turned his attention to Talibah. "What do we say?"

"Repeat after me: _Send the truthful seer out of the holy shrine, I beseech thee, Lampsuer, Sumarta, Baribas, Dardalam, Iorlex: O Lord send the sacred deity Anuth , Anuth, Salbana, Chambré, Breïth, now, now, quickly, quickly. Come in this very night. Sachmu, epaema Ligotereench: the Aeon, the Thunderer, Thou that has swallowed the snake and does exhaust the Moon, and dost raise up the orb of the sun in his season, Chthetho is thy name; I require, O lords of the gods, Seth, Chreps, give me the information that I desire_."

A'aqil shook his head and groaned. "I'll never remember all of that!"

"Hmph," grunted Talibah. "Give me another piece of paper and I'll write it out for you."

That night, before they went to bed, everyone thought it would be great fun to recite the chant. They passed the paper from person to person, each one repeating the words seven times as Talibah had instructed. The last person blew out the lamp, and each went to his or her tent to sleep.

-0-0-0-

The next morning, everyone was up early. Safa told whoever would listen that she had dreamed of her wedding day with Ra'id. Ra'id would not go into detail, but agreed that his dream had been similar. They grinned at one another.

Neither Erik nor Elizabeth would speak of theirs. Elizabeth insisted that she had none during the night, while Erik shrugged the whole thing off as having been a waste of time and energy. "No dream reveals the future," he declared.

"Are you sure, Master?" A'aqil asked, his face drawn and haggard.

"What's the matter?" Erik asked. "Were you up all night, seeking your one true love?"

"Oh, I slept, Master. It is the dream I had that troubles me still. And it is all _her_ fault." He pointed an reproving finger at Talibah.

"What?" the old woman said sharply. "What are you accusing me of?"

"Of sending me a nightmare. Master, in my dream, it was _she _who revealed herself as my heart's desire!"

The old woman cackled. "Maybe next time, you will be kinder to old Talibah."

-0-0-0-

The last of the effects of the scorpion sting seemed to have finally worn off, and Erik had to admit to himself that for the first time in a week, he was feeling like his old self. As usual, he was wearing khaki colored trousers and shirt, heavy-duty boots good for tramping over gravel or sand, and a checkered _keffiyeh_ to protect his face. Elizabeth, on her part, wore the split skirt, boots, a simple blouse, and pith helmet held in place with a lightweight scarf to shield her head from the sun's heat.

He glanced over at the makeshift kitchen where Talibah and Safa were preparing food for them to take on their visit to the campsite and tombs. More than once, the old witch had alluded to a dark future for Leonidas Brackenstall. Was it possible that she really had the power to see into the future? Or were her mysterious predictions merely an educated guess?

He nodded to Elizabeth and saw the worry on her face. "We'll check every clue out there," he said, wanting to reassure her. "We'll leave no stone unturned. We'll do whatever needs to be done to find your husband."

"And if…" she started to say.

"No ifs. Let's not invite problems. Instead, we'll deal with matters one step at a time."

She gave him a shaky smile. "Yes, of course."

The donkeys brayed as A'aqil and Ra'id prepared four of them for their trip.

"What?" Elizabeth asked with a chuckle, surprised at the choice of animals. She gave Erik a sly smile. "You're going to leave your stallion behind and join us in riding such humble beasts?" she teased.

Erik grinned beneath his _keffiyeh_. "I didn't want A'aqil to be alone in having his feet drag on the ground," he said, referring to the both of them having long legs. His humor helped dispel the gloom that had overcome her, as he had intended, and Elizabeth found that yet again, Erik Rien had once more risen in her estimation.

_If only, _she kept thinking._ If only…_

Within the hour, the four of them—Elizabeth, Erik, A'aqil and Ra'id—were off in the direction of the north tombs. Safa and Talibah remained back at camp, tending to the remaining animals. They would see to it that a nice supper would await the others when they returned.

-0-0-0-

The north tombs, like the others, were situated on the northeast side of the desert plain. Here, the cliff reached a height of about 280 feet, but the tombs themselves were not near the top but nearer the base, at the crest of a steep slope of loose rock. A ravine cut through the cliff, dividing the tombs into two groups.

Eventually they came upon the campsite. It may, or may not, have been left by Leo. It was hard to tell, as there was little to differentiate it from any other encampment. Rocks had been made into a circle and held the remains of a long extinguished fire, and there was a scattering of animal bones that looked to have been the leftovers from somebody's meal, but there was little else. It was, however, at the base of the cliffs and immediately below the entrance to one of the tombs.

"Shall we?" asked Erik, indicating the entranceway.

They hobbled the animals and found a winding path that led to the entrance of the burial place, and walked single file along the narrow trail.

It may have been the Egyptian equivalent of mid-winter, but already the daytime temperatures were getting warmer. The day was hot and dusty, and the sky clear. The sun reflected blindingly off the arid landscape like molten metal, and a prevailing breeze was blowing, giving little comfort while creating dust devils in the distance. One column whirled nearby, pelting them with dust, sand and other small objects.

A'aqil pointed at the vortex as it danced crazily past them. "_Fasset el 'afreet_," he said nervously. "Ghost's wind. Perhaps we should come back another time."

Ra'id scoffed at the younger man. "What's this? You're afraid?"

Erik shot the both of them a warning glance. "It's a column of hot air, nothing more. Something both of you should be familiar with." He gestured to the tomb. "The sooner we check these out, the sooner we can return to camp and comfort." He wasn't about to admit that A'aqil wasn't the only who had become uncomfortable.

Long ago, he had learned to trust his sixth sense to tell him when danger was lurking nearby. Many a time, his intuition had helped him survive where a weaker person would have succumbed. Today, all his instincts were telling him that something was terribly wrong. It wasn't that there was something specific he could point to. There were no clear-cut signs, no real evidence…only a gut feeling. But just the same, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

He turned to Elizabeth, who was following immediately behind him. For the first time, he regretted having brought her along and exposing her to whatever it was that was lying in wait for them.

_I should have made her remain back camp with the other women, _he thought_. _Then he saw the look of dogged determination on her face, and knew that she would never have stood still for that.

He fingered the Punjab lasso, securely tucked away in his pocket. Even though he could never publicly admit his feelings for her, he would see to it that Elizabeth was kept safe. That was a promise.

They stopped at the tomb entrance, the dark opening reminding Erik of a huge maw waiting to gobble them up. "We'll need the lanterns here," he said.

Ra'id handed them out, along with a pack of matches. As he handed one to Elizabeth, he said, "Sitt, let us go first. I confess to having grave misgivings about entering the tomb. Who knows what evil spirits are lurking inside."

"I'm surprised at you and this talk of 'evil spirits'. How many seasons have you worked on digs with my father? How many tombs have you explored with us? There's no need to be protective of me," she countered. "This is not the first tomb I've ever been in."

"Ra'id is right," said Erik. "Please, Beth," he said, not realizing he had used the diminutive form of her name. "Please, do as Ra'id asks. I know that you are anxious to find your husband, bit we ask this for your own safety, and ours. We have no idea what we will encounter the deeper we go into the tomb, and I cannot shake the feeling that something's not right. I can't concentrate if I am…worried about you. Do this…for me."

In the end, she agreed, if only because of the sincerity she heard pouring out in Erik's voice. That he called her "Beth" was not lost upon her either. _If only…If only…_kept ringing through her brain. But her husband might be inside, sick or injured. She could not passively stand back and let others do the work. She had to be involved.

"I know you're wishing you hadn't brought me along," she said, "but I have to do this, Erik. Leo is my husband."

Erik nodded, surprised at how well she already understood him. "I knew better than to ask that of you," he said, and was rewarded with a smile. "Now then, stand back, everyone. Things may get dicey for a few minutes. Keep your heads covered."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, perplexed.

Erik managed to give her a wink. "Watch and learn," he said, then stepped into the opening and waved the lantern around.

Elizabeth didn't comprehend what he was doing until she jumped back at the cloud of black that burst forth as several hundred bats shrieked their displeasure at having their daytime snooze interrupted. The way cleared, Erik motioned for the three to follow him into the darkness, where their lanterns cast weak pools of light on the unfinished interior of the tomb. Inside this outer chamber, a forest of lotus columns had sprung up, carved from the rock and supporting the ceiling while drifts of sand sometimes as high as their knees collected at the bases. Even though they were out of the glaring sun, they could still feel the desert's heat. The wind had also managed to reach the chamber, bringing with it swirling bits debris.

"This is interesting," Elizabeth noted as a gust blew an escaped lock of sun-lightened hair into her face. "The door must be aligned in such a way that it collects the prevailing breezes. Perhaps the ancient engineers planned it that way so that the workers would have fresh air."

A'aqil nodded tentatively. "Yes, it's warm as a bake oven, but we are fortunate in that it is an oven in which the air circulates." He continued looking over his shoulder, expecting a demon to jump out from behind one of the pillars.

They continued forward, deeper into the burial place. The drifts made it difficult to walk and the room had the look of decay and abandonment. The flickering light from the lanterns made the hieroglyphs on the walls look as though they were dancing.

"Look!" A'aqil called out, pointing to the floor. "Someone else has been in here."

The others gathered round to see what he was pointing to, and saw what might have been the remains of footprints.

"Are you sure these weren't made by an animal?" Elizabeth asked. "A jackal, maybe?"

"Yes, I am certain. They may be distorted by the wind, but if you look closely, you can see that they are the footprints of someone walking upright, and not an animal."

"How old would you say they are?" asked Erik.

A'aqil knelt down to inspect them more closely. "Impossible to say. With the sand always in motion, we're lucky to have come upon them at all. Who knows? In another week, they might be completely erased."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and shivered as a chill went down her spine. "Then it's good that we're here today," she said hopefully.

Erik saw her slight shudder. "Are you cold?"

"Not cold, just the feeling of…someone walking on my grave." She laughed nervously. "That's what my aunt used to always say when she shivered for no reason."

They continued past the colonnade, and twice Elizabeth called out Leo's name, but there was no answer either time. They stopped when they came upon the opening to a second chamber.

"Perhaps you should wait here, Beth," Erik said.

"But why? We've already seen that the tomb is empty."

Erik shook his head. "I don't know. Call it intuition."

Elizabeth felt cold again, and her mouth went dry. "But…what if Leo's in there?" She didn't add, _What if he's lying in there, already dead? _

"We'll let you know. Just let us check this room out first."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "I'll guard your back," she said, trying to keep her tone light.

Erik gave her another wink. "I wouldn't want anyone else for the job."

The men passed through the second doorway. On the other side was a large room, the unfinished shrine where the sarcophagus of the tomb's occupied would have been placed. The doorframes were covered with columns of blue hieroglyphs on a wine-colored background, painted in such a way as to imitate the look of granite. They held out their lanterns higher to get a better look at things, and on the walls saw scenes from the funeral of the ancient deceased showing the grieving family, the professional mourners, priests and funeral offerings. In front of them, staring back with dead, vacant eyes was the vault's original owner, or what was supposed to represent him in the afterlife—the badly mutilated statue of a seated man cut from the living rock.

Erik held up his hand gesturing for everyone to halt, and discreetly pulled his _keffiyeh_ away from his face. There was a peculiar odor to the room, one he had become well acquainted with during his stay in Persia. It wasn't necessarily strong, but it was there nonetheless, reminding him of rotting fruit. He put the scarf back in place and turned to A'aqil and Ra'id. Their expressions told him that they smelled it, too. He looked down at the floor, surprised to see beetles scampering away from the light. His sixth sense was screaming at him.

"Be careful," he warned, not knowing what else to say.

A'aqil pointed and whispered loudly, "Master! Look!"

And at that moment, Elizabeth screamed.

-0-0-0-


	23. Grief

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 23  
Grief**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone."  
_**~Harriett Beecher Stowe**

Erik frowned as he regarded the corpse that was lying facedown on the floor in front of them. He had seen his share of death over the years and so was not easily shocked. Years ago, when he'd been part of the inner circle of the Persian court, assassination and torture had been the rule rather than the exception. In nearly every instance, he'd felt nothing for those ill-fated victims of greed and failed _coup d'états_. What lay on the floor was different; in spite of everything, Erik found himself feeling sorry for the man. If this was Leonidas Brackenstall -- and there was little doubt in his mind that it wasn't -- then it wasn't so much that fact the man's life had ended prematurely, but that this was the husband of the woman he had come to care for.

He motioned to Ra'id. "I think it would be best if you took her out," he said quietly, nodding towards Elizabeth. "She shouldn't see this."

Even though he tried to keep his voice down, she heard him nonetheless. "But…" she protested, her face a ghastly shade of white, her eyes wide with horror. She could not bring herself to look away, no matter how grotesque the sight before her. "But…we need to know. I need to know…"

Erik came over and put an arm around and pulled her close, feeling awkward in doing so yet needing to offer her what comfort he could. "We'll make sure we know who he is, but for now, let's all step outside and collect our thoughts."

She nodded without thinking, and allowed Erik to lead her out of the tomb. Back into the light of day, she squinted. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she found she could not cry. The afternoon had grown hotter, yet she felt cold and began to tremble. She rubbed her arms, trying to warm herself.

"Here," said Erik, removing the robe he always wore and slipping it over her shoulders. "I think you need this more than I." Then, with one hand reaching around and holding her by the waist, and the other taking her by the elbow, he gently steered her away from the tomb and back to where the donkeys were waiting. A large rock was nearby, the perfect size for sitting on, and he helped Elizabeth to it.

"It might not be Leo," she started to say; trying to convince herself of something she did not believe. She wanted to be strong, but could not stop trembling.

Erik sat next to her, sensing her need. It tore him apart to see this woman who was normally strong devastated, and she didn't stop him when he placed a hand on her back and rubbed her shoulders. "It's all right to cry," he said consolingly.

"I…I wish I could," she admitted. "Will you …sit here with me for a few minutes? I…I don't want to talk, only sit."

Erik did as she asked, and the two of them sat quietly. Eventually, he asked the question he'd been holding back. "What do you want to do…if that is indeed your husband in there?"

She looked around, as if the answer were somewhere in front of her. Then she said, "I'd like to bury him there, in the tomb. At least temporarily. When we return to Luxor…." She shuddered again.

"When we return to Luxor, I'll make the necessary arrangements to have your husband brought home," Erik finished for her.

"You would do this? For me? After all the trouble I've been?"

He gave her a reassuring smile, one she could see even through the scarf that covered his misshapen face. "I would do that, and more. After all, we're friends, Elizabeth. Good friends."

"Yes. That we are."

Erik was relieved to see that the color was returning to her cheeks as the initial shock wore off. "Are you feeling better now?" he asked.

"A little," she replied, the determination and practicality she always prided herself on helping her regain her equilibrium. "What will you do first?"

"A'aqil and I will go in there and prepare the body for burial. There's some sheeting in one of the donkey packs. We'll use that as a shroud. You stay here with Ra'id. Let the two of us do this for you, spare you as much as we can."

She gave him a sad grin and held out her hand to him. "Thank you, dear friend." She held his hand a moment, reluctantly letting go of it as he turned to the grim task before him.

Ra'id spoke up. "Wouldn't it be better if I were to go into the tomb with you? I know Mr. Leonidas, and might be able to help. This is servant's work, Master. If anyone stays behind, it should be you."

Erik gave a look in Elizabeth's direction. "It is very generous of you to volunteer," he said, "but I believe Mrs. Brackenstall would be more comfortable with you. The two of you have known each other for many years. She will appreciate your company."

"Very good, Master."

"We'd better get going," Erik said to Elizabeth, pointing to A'aqil who was standing near the donkeys. "Ra'id will be here with you. If you need something, call. We'll hear you, even inside."

Satisfied that it was safe to leave Elizabeth, Erik went over to A'aqil. "Are you up to going back in there?"

The Nubian took a deep breath and nodded. "Not really, but it must be done. Let me get the things we need." He unpacked a large sheet and a folding shovel. "I wondered why you had me bring these along, Master. You suspected something like this, didn't you?"

"I kept hoping we'd find Mr. Brackenstall alive, but as the days went by, the less likely the prospect seemed to be."

"Are we going to take _him_ back to Amarna with us?"

Erik glanced over at Elizabeth. "No, not right now. We're going to get him ready for burial. I thought I saw a granite sarcophagus inside. We could use that for now."

-0-0-0-

Ra'id brought her a canteen of water to drink and a damp cloth so she could wipe her face. She acknowledged both with a silent nod.

"I grieve with you, Sitt," he said at last.

"Thank you, Ra'id."

"I have known you a long time, almost as long as I've known your father. This is a very sad day."

"A very sad day indeed." She circled her arms around her knees and leaned forward, resting her head. When she felt his hand on her shoulder, she looked up suddenly. "What's wrong with me, Ra'id? Why can't I cry?"

"It is the shock, Sitt. Do not feel the need to force yourself. The tears will come when they're ready."

"But what if they never come? What does that say about me, that I did not love my husband, that I am not capable of…?"

"No, Sitt. You have much love. I've seen the way you look at…the way you are. Mr. Leo and you, well, you had a different kind of marriage. An English marriage. You were a good match. You shared the same interests."

She grew still. "That's all we shared. A superficial commonality."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I."

"Ask Mr. Erik. He will know."

"Mr. Erik..." She repeated the name, a sense of calm spreading over her when she said it.

-0-0-0-

Inside the second chamber, A'aqil placed the lanterns about to give them enough light to see what they were doing, their lights casting ghostly shadows on the walls. Then he spread out a large sheet.

"Before we do anything else," said Erik, "I want to take some time and look the body over, see if there are any clues as to how he died. We also need to make sure that this is Leonidas Brackenstall we've found, and not some hapless tourist." After all, Elizabeth hadn't had a chance to really see what he looked like. Given the condition of the body, Erik hadn't allowed it.

"Master? Here, you might want these." A'aqil handed Erik a pair of leather work gloves.

"Yes. Thank you."

A'aqil gave a lopsided grimace and put on a pair of his own. "Like you, I came out here expecting the worst. Ugh!" he groaned, beetles crunching beneath his sandaled foot. The creatures had resumed their feast, and it took Erik and A'aqil several minutes to clear them away.

At last, Erik approached the corpse. He held his hand over his mouth and nostrils, letting the _keffiyeh _filter the odor of decay. The stench hadn't been terribly noticeable in the outer chamber, but here in the inner chamber it was much stronger, and Erik was silently thankful for the breeze that managed to work its way this deep into the tomb. From the extent of the decomposition, it was apparent that Leo had been dead for at least a couple of weeks.

He stepped closer to the body, the sand under his boots still damp from the moisture of putrescence. He gently turned the corpse onto its back, and his stomach flip-flopped. Desert vermin had done their job, having feasted until there was little that was recognizable in the way of a face. A shock of sandy brown hair fell across what had once been an aristocratic forehead. Death was hardly ever a pretty sight.

Erik tried to reconcile the remains with what he remembered of the young man, and recalled the day that Brackenstall had come to see him. Leo had been tall and handsome, brash but dignified, but no more. Instead, Erik found himself feeling downright handsome compared to what was staring back at him with vacant eye sockets.

"Hello, Leo," he said quietly. "Long time no see. What brought you to this ignominious end?"

He began rummaging through the pockets of Leo's shirt and trousers. Inside one, he found a gold wedding band. Erik looked at Leo's left hand and saw no ring on it; he wiped the band and tucked it in his own pants pocket. He continued his search for clues, and was surprised to find an unposted letter stuck in Leo's boots. He quickly scanned it, seeking some hint as to what happened, then tucked it away also.

"What killed him, master?"

The body was in bad shape, and it was difficult to tell at first look how Leo had died. "Anything is possible. A heart attack. A scorpion or a cobra. Foul play. That is why we must examine the body. There will be evidence, if we know how to look for it." He continued his investigation and turned to say something to A'aqil, but found the man had left the room. Then he heard the retching sounds and knew what had happened.

"Forgive me, Master," his servant said shamefacedly when he returned.

"Do you think you can handle it now?"

"Yes, Master." He joined Erik. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm looking for something, anything that might be a clue."

A'aqil noticed the still-moist sand where Leo had been lying. "Master, did you see this?" He pointed to a large, brown stain where Leo's face had been. "This is blood. A lot of it. Would he have bled this much from a fall or snake bite?"

Erik forced himself to look more closely at the ravaged body. Much of the soft tissue had been destroyed, but in spite of this, he was still able to see what was left of a knife wound. "It looks as though Leo's throat was slit. It must have been a very sharp knife. See this? The head is nearly decapitated."

A'aqil forced himself not to shudder. "I don't like the sound of that, Master."

"Neither do I."

"Do you suppose whoever did this is still around?"

"No. Whoever did this must have deliberately chosen this place thinking no one would ever know to look here. Remember when we questioned the villagers? They spoke of two men, one European and another who was Egyptian, who had come to see the ruins. No one's seen either one since."

"I don't suppose this was an accident." Erik cocked an eyebrow at him. "Only asking, Master."

Their examination completed, they carefully lifted the body onto the sheet, wrapped it, and placed it inside the remains of the sarcophagus.

"What are you going to tell Mrs. Brackenstall, Master?"

Erik considered the question, then said, "Nothing for now. She's had enough of a shock. But you and I will have to keep an eye on things."

They searched the room for evidence, and finding none, they cleaned it up as best they could, covering the residue left from the corpse with sand. Satisfied that there was nothing more they could do, they left the tomb and rejoined the others.

-0-0-0-

Back at their temporary camp, Erik approached Elizabeth. The fact that Leo had been carrying his wedding band in his pocket rather than wearing it was troubling. Could the man have been philandering? He saw the expectant look on Elizabeth's face. She did not need more bad news.

"Did you discover…if that is Leo?" she asked.

Erik gave her a sad nod, and handed her the ring.

She looked at the band and held it up, turning it between her fingers and watching the sun glint off its golden surface. "Was he wearing this?" she asked.

He hesitated before answering. "No. I found it in your husband's trousers pocket."

He waited for her to frown, or worse, but instead she smiled. "That is just like Leo. He is…I mean; he was always taking his ring off when he was in the field for fear of damaging it."

"This wasn't unusual, then?"

"No," she said. "Not at all. I was always cautioning him that putting it in his pocket was no safer than wearing it, that he was more likely to lose it that way than if it was on his finger."

"Then you're certain this is your husband's," Erik asked.

She motioned him to look closer at the ring. "Yes. See the inscription inside?"

Erik took the ring and examined it more closely. He hadn't noticed the words earlier. _"Molôn labé? _It's Greek, isn't it?"

Elizabeth gave a little laugh. "Then you're acquainted with it?"

"The Battle of Thermopylae? Yes, I'm familiar with the story. King Xerxes demanded that the Greeks surrender their weapons, and King Leonidas of Sparta replied, _molôn labé _– come and get them." The connection suddenly came to him. _"King_ Leonidas, eh?"

"Yes," she said, more at ease. After her earlier shock, it felt good, even if for a moment, to relax. "When we first met, I teased Leo mercilessly about his noble name, and insisted on having those words inscribed on his band. Oh, and he has two older brothers, too – Achilles and Hector."

Erik gave a small chuckle. "Somebody either didn't like his sons, or is steeped in classical literature."

"That would be Leo's father, Lord Ulysses Hiram Brackenstall, and I sometimes wonder if the answer isn't both."

"Did they get along well?" he asked, knowing that with names like theirs, the brothers must have had a contentious childhood.

She chuckled, but became more serious when Erik handed her the letter. "What's this?" she asked.

"Leo had it tucked in his boot. It's addressed to you."

"Did you read it?"

"Only the salutation. I had to see to whom it was written. When I saw your name, I stopped reading and folded it back up. "

"There could be some information in this," she said eagerly. "Something to tell us what Leo was up to, and with whom." She opened the letter and started to read.

"En route to Amarna" read the heading. It was dated December 9, 1885…more than a month ago.

_Lizzy Dearest…_it started.

"Lizzy," she said out loud, a tiny frown creasing her brow. She noticed Erik giving her a quizzical look. "That was Leo's pet name for me. He would call me Lizzy when he was being playful, especially when I was angry with him. He knew I thought it silly sounding, and would try to make me laugh by using it on me."

"Did it work?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But I do not want to hear you or anyone else call me Lizzy. I shall not tolerate that from any of you." Her small lecture done, she returned to the letter.

Erik stood silently by, finding himself envying the late Leo Brackenstall, envying that the man had had someone cared enough to notice and appreciate things about him, such as his habit with the ring. He wondered what it would be like to have someone care about him in such a way. When they parted, what would Elizabeth remember about _him?_ Or, over time, would she remember anything at all? Would her memories of him simply fade away? He forced such thoughts out of his mind.

Elizabeth continued reading, and as she did so, tears that she could not bring herself to shed earlier were beginning to form.

_I'm certain that by now_, Leo had written, _you are quite angry with me, and I shall apologize most abjectly when I return. For now, this little note will have to do, although I'm not sure when or where I'll have the opportunity to post it. _

_I know I shouldn't have left in the lurch like this, but it couldn't be helped. I have fallen into the opportunity of a lifetime. While shopping in the bazaars a few days ago, I came upon a remarkable piece, part of a tomb painting. Inquiries led me to learn that it comes from the tomb of one of the heretic kings, someone called Tut-Ankh-Aten. _

_I know you will tell me that I am gullible, that someone is pulling my leg, but Lizzy dearest, I do not think this is the case. I have hired a gentleman who is quite knowledgeable in such things, and he, too, has heard these rumors of a hidden cache of funeral goods. I wanted to share this with you, but he insisted that we tell no one, that it is too easy for a slip of the tongue to allow our competitors to beat us to the finish. And so, that is why I have taken this rather cowardly way out. Forgive me? _

_Well now, it looks as though my partner needs to consult me. I shall write more later. When you read this, do not focus on how angry you are at me right now, but rather on how famous your husband will be when we announce our find to the world._

_Your Leo._

When she finished, she handed it to Erik.

"Are you sure you want me to read this?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, I do. I know that there have been times when I've been upset with my husband, but I want you to know that he wasn't a bad person. Not really."

He quickly scanned the missive, and returned it to her. "He was thinking of you. That is important."

"Yes," she said softly. "It is.

Erik wanted to console Elizabeth, but he could see that she was growing distant. "Life isn't always easy," he offered, "but we continue."

She took a deep breath, and then asked, "Did you discover how Leo died?"

Erik considered her question. He was not ready to tell her that her husband had been brutally murdered. There would be time enough for that later. But neither did he want to tell her an outright lie. "It's hard to say," was all he said, which was true as far as it went.

Something in his tone made her suspect that he was keeping something from her, but she wasn't up to pressing the issue. Instead, she accepted his judgment and looked up at the tomb. "I believe it is time for me to say good-bye to Leo."

Lanterns in hand, they return to the burial place. Elizabeth approached the sarcophagus and looked down upon the shrouded figure lying within. She closed her eyes and offered an Egyptian prayer for the dead.

_May you be given  
__Bread and beer,  
__Beef and fowl,  
__Clothing and ointment,  
__Everything good and pure  
__Such as the souls of the  
__Blessed dead live upon._

Then she stepped closer, put her hand on the shroud, and spoke to her husband. "We'll be taking you home soon. No more deserts. No more hunts for treasure. You'll be home again, with your family."

It was a somber group that returned to camp that evening.

-0-0-0-

Once the sun had set, the desert lost its heat. With the crystal clear sky, filled with twinkling stars, the warmth of the day quickly dissipated, leaving the night air cool and dry. It had been a quiet supper, with little conversation. Safa stayed close to Elizabeth, and for that, Erik was grateful. Elizabeth needed someone with her, another woman. Old Talibah had offered to brew something to help Elizabeth sleep, and Elizabeth accepted the offer with gratitude.

"I'm not sure I could sleep a wink tonight, not after everything that happened today," she admitted to the old woman. As she drank the herbal tea, she worked up the courage to ask, "Is this what you saw when you looked into my future?"

Talibah sighed. "When I looked at the stones, I saw a dark cloud in your immediate future but that was all. The Sight did not tell me who was in danger or what the misfortune might be, only that it was there. Tell me the truth, Sitt. If I had seen your husband's death, would you have wanted to know in advance?"

Elizabeth considered her question. Would she have wanted to know without being able to do anything about it? "No," she answered after several moments. "I don't think I would have." She gave the cup back to the old woman.

"Do not blame yourself, Sitt. What is meant to be, will be. There is a reason for all Allah does, but he does not always share this with us. We must accept what happens and move on."

Elizabeth shared a small smile with the old woman. "Mr. Rien said something similar earlier today."

"You should listen to him. He is a wise man, for all his faults."

And with that, their conversation ended. The three women bade the men good evening, leaving them to their own devices, and went to their tent to sleep.

-0-0-0-

Erik looked up at the midnight sky. Footsteps approached from behind, and he turned to see A'aqil and Ra'id approaching.

"We've made a circuit around the camp, Master," A'aqil announced. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything is secure."

Ra'id nodded, agreeing with A'aqil's report.

Earlier in the evening, Erik had spoken to both men. "I think the three of us should take turns keeping an eye on things tonight."

Although he was confident that whoever killed Leo was long gone, he did not want to take the chance that the killer or one of his confederates had been spying on them. Better to be safe than sorry.

Ra'id had expressed concern when told this. "Is there something going on that I should be aware of? Have you seen signs of bandits?" He recalled stories of bandits that were known to scour the area, seeking out unsuspecting victims.

"No, not necessarily bandits," Erik had said. He almost confided in Ra'id, but thought better of it. Best to keep his suspicions to himself. "I'm not sure. I could be over-reacting, but with finding your mistress's husband dead, and us not knowing exactly how he died, I'd feel better if we took a few extra precautions."

"This is good," agreed Ra'id, and the three of them decided to take turns keeping watch through the night. It was decided that A'aqil would take the first watch, Ra'id the second, and Erik the third.

"Very good, then," said Erik. "I'll turn in. You'd better do the same," he said to Ra'id, and then he turned and went to his tent.

-0-0-0-

Erik slept lightly, his nerves on edge, waiting for a call to arms. Since coming on this expedition, he had taken to sleeping in his trousers. He chuckled at the idea of jumping out of bed and chasing the bad guys off while naked.

As he drifted into a kind of twilight sleep, he heard the soft sound of footsteps coming into his tent. He turned and opened his eyes, reaching for something to use as a weapon, when he saw it was Elizabeth. He inhaled deeply when he saw she was wearing the white caftan she had worn _that_ night. She stood in the doorway, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight that filtered in, and stared at him, looking confused.

"I'm sorry. I…I shouldn't have come here," she finally said.

Erik got up from his cot and slipped on his shirt. "Is something wrong? Did you hear a sound? You needn't worry. I've got A'aqil and Ra'id taking turns keeping an eye on the camp tonight. "

"No…I only…I couldn't sleep."

"Would you like to talk?" he asked, pointing to the campstool.

"Yes…no…I mean…Oh, I don't know what I mean." She closed her eyes and nodded, and she started to tremble. "I…I shouldn't have come here and disturbed your rest."

"You're upset. It's natural." Erik stepped closer. "Are you cold?"

Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked into his. She didn't see his terrible face, only the comfort of a friend. "I…Would you hold me? I…," she stopped and came closer, sliding into his arms and burying her face against his chest. "Would you just hold me?" she asked in a small voice.

Erik stood for a moment before allowing himself to put his arms around her, and felt her shoulders shake softly as she finally allowed herself to cry. He rubbed her back and whispered soothing words, telling her over and over that it was all right to cry as long as she needed, that he would protect her. He was amazed at how frail she felt, so small and frightened. Bowing down, he inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair, scented with the attar of roses she always wore, and kissed the crown of her head.

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes and, and then she began to nuzzle the side of his neck. An electric shock passed through him when she kissed his throat and worked her way to his face – his twisted, deformed face. Another shock struck as her hand parted the fabric of his shirt and explored his chest. And then, she kissed him on the lips. Deeply. Passionately.

He responded hungrily. His tongue ran across her lips, savoring her taste. The hand he had been using to rub her shoulders worked its way lower, until it rested against the small of her back, pressing her body against his, and he felt her body become soft and pliant, molding to his. Erik moaned, aware of stirrings he had only dreamed of with Christine, sensations he had only dreamed of. It would be so easy to indulge...

_At last. This is finally happening to me! _Thoughts of ecstasy filled his mind and he kissed her again. Soon another, more disturbing thought burst into his brain. S_he has come to me out of…grief, and this is how I respond? What kind of a monster am I, to think of making love to a woman who is…? _

"No," he said, abruptly pushing her away and holding her at arm's length. "Not like this."

"Erik…" she said, her breathing hard and ragged.

Damn it all, why did he have to be noble? Why couldn't he allow this to happen? "You're...not thinking clearly," he forced himself to say. "You're grieving. I'd be taking advantage of you."

She pulled back – confused, embarrassed and more than a little ashamed. "I only want to be...to be close to you."

It would be so easy to give in, to make love to her the way she wanted to make love to him. Would it be so wrong for two people who were lonely to take comfort in one another's arms? "Not...like this."

"Don't send me away," she said softly. "I want to be with_ you_. Don't you want me?"

Erik could hardly trust himself…or her. He nodded slowly, avoiding her eyes. "Let's go outside, and sit by the fire."

She looked around the interior of the tent, as if in a daze. "Outside? By the fire?"

"It's for the best. I...don't want there to be regrets -- for either of us."

"Regrets! I can add one more to my_ endless_ supply of them!"

He shrugged. He wanted her, needed her. "We can talk," he struggled to say. "By the fire. Where we can be seen."

She smiled, almost shyly. "I promise to behave."

"You can say anything you wish, in the darkness, by the fire. There, we'll be...we're proper. A'aqil is keeping watch tonight, and others are close by. But if we.... You'd hate me. You'd hate yourself."

The enormity of what she had done struck, and she allowed Erik to walk her outside of his tent. The camp chair she had enjoyed so much their first day was still there, waiting for her. He helped her sit down and went back into his tent, bringing back a blanket that he wrapped around her. She felt the warmth still in its fibers, and recognized it as the blanket that had been on his cot. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her arms, leaned down and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent she had come to recognize as his, a masculine, woody fragrance.

Embers still burned in the campfire, and Erik stirred them, adding more fuel so that the flames came to life again. They sat where they could be observed, and forced themselves to behave.

"We'll stay up all night if you wish," he said, taking a seat next to her, "and watch the fire." He tried to think of something they could talk about, to redirect her thoughts so that she could get release her many pent up emotions. "Why don't you…why don't you tell me how you met Leo."

_And only we will know what almost happened,_ he thought. _Only we will know what we both wanted to happen. God, if she'd asked me one more time, I…I couldn't resist._

They sat by the campfire, and Elizabeth poured her heart out to Erik. She told him the good things that she remembered about Leo – about how they met, the first blush of love, the garden parties. Silly, inconsequential things that ordinary people often took for granted. He listened as she told him what a good man Leo had been, if a bit eccentric and negligent. She spoke about how exciting it had been for the daughter of a lowly university professor to marry the son of an Earl, and her introduction to high society.

While she spoke, Erik thought that, even though Leo was dead, he could never compete with that kind of life. What could he offer her? He was only an antiquities dealer -- a shady one, at that. He was not worthy. Whatever she felt for him, it wasn't love. She was confused, had learned that she'd lost her husband. If she were in her right mind, she would never have turned to him for comfort. To him, of all people! A mongrel, a monster without a name, a nobody....

... but when she looked at him like that, he felt as if he were _someone_, someone who might, just might, have a chance...

-0-0-0-

Morning came early. By the time the others stirred and prepared to return to the main camp, Erik and Elizabeth were both dressed and ready to go. A'aqil eyed his master suspiciously.

"Don't look at me that way," Erik snapped. "Nothing happened."

"I didn't say anything! But my eyes can see, and I saw the two of you come from your tent and sit by the fire."

"Then you could see that there was nothing amiss. The woman has recently lost her husband. She was upset."

A'aqil chortled. "Master...Erik...A blind man could see that she cares for you, and you for her."

"I do not!" he blurted a bit too loudly. The others turned to see what was going on, and Erik lowered his voice. "I don't care for...anyone."

"If you say so." The Nubian servant shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to hide the grin on his face. "What is that expression you are so fond of quoting to me? Something about fooling some of the people some of the time?"

"She's grieving. She turned to me for comfort, that's all. She wanted a shoulder to cry on."

"Of course, a shoulder to cry on. If all she wanted was a shoulder, she could have turned to my sister, or to that old crone. But no, she came to you. You can deny it all you want, but the truth is that your hearts call to each other."

"That's not the way it happened. There was nothing inappropriate...nothing happened between us. We sat by the fire and talked. Nothing else. There can _never_ be anything else. I am not...not what she wants. Not what she deserves."

"Don't you think that is for her to decide? I saw the way she looked at you. That wasn't the kind of look a sister gives to her brother, or a woman to a _friend_. She loves you."

"Be careful with your assumptions. I'd hate to have to dismiss you."

A'aqil ignored the threat. He knew it was hollow anyway. "You'd turn me out? When you have a wedding to give?"

Erik saw Safa and Ra'id standing next to each other, the two of them holding hands. "You mean them?"

"Of course. Who did you think I meant? I will not allow you to get out of it so easily. Father of the bride, and all."

Erik felt the tension he'd been holding in drain away, and allowed himself to laugh. "I haven't forgotten my obligations. Never fear."

"You are a man of honor."

"I don't know about that..."

"Trust me, Master. I swear, there are times when I believe I know you better than you know yourself."

"Are Mohammedans supposed to swear?"

A'aqil shrugged off the question. "After her heart heals…," he started to say.

"No. This is not a subject that is open for discussion. This is none of your business."

"If you say so, Master." He turned to leave, getting his donkey ready to mount.

Erik called after him. "A'aqil, wait."

"Yes, Master?"

He stared at the ground, while the donkeys brayed impatiently. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then he took a deep gulp of air. Finally, he looked his friend in the eye and said, "I don't often say this, but…thank you."

-0-0-0-

**Quick Authors' Note:** Continued thanks from me and Lizzy to all our readers! Even if I don't reply personally to your reviews, they are appreciated and looked forward to just the same!


	24. Return to Luxor

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 24  
Return to Luxor**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Bear patiently, my heart, for you have suffered heavier things.  
_- Homer, Greek Author

The next morning, the search party returned to Amarna. There, they camped outside the village, waiting for the return of the _Eye of Horus_. True to his word, Captain Hassan showed up several days later. Though he had picked up a few passengers in Cairo, there was still room available for the six of them. When Hassan asked how it was their number had grown, Erik muttered something about being adopted by a woman who was not only a witch, but old enough to be his grandmother. Hassan stifled a laugh, ordered the crew to load the luggage and what supplies were returning with them, re-provisioned the boat, and cast off.

The return trip to Luxor was a solemn one. The passengers did not mingle much, and other than taking her meals in the galley, Elizabeth spent most of her time in her cabin, which she was now sharing with the other two women. Myriad thoughts went through her mind as she tried to make some sense out of what needed to be done once she was home. She tried not to think too far into the future. _Take care of things one step at a time_, she told herself. _Do not put too much pressure on yourself._

She tried not to think about the pathetic dig site near Karnak that awaited her return, and knew she would close down the Brackenstall expedition for good. It had been Leo's pet project, and while she was thrilled at the prospect of new discoveries, there would be nothing of value from this one.

Practical thoughts permeated her mind. Did Leo have a will prepared? She tried to remember if he'd ever mentioned one, but could not recall him ever having done so. Then again, how many men at the age of 30 considered their own mortality? Her brow wrinkled as she frowned. This could prove problematic.

Leo's father, Lord Brackenstall, had never really approved of their marriage although in the end he had given them his blessing, half-hearted though it was. It was her mother-in-law, Lady Beatrice, who had the soft spot in her heart for her youngest and sometimes troublesome son, and who had smoothed things over for them with her husband. But now that Leo was gone, would their support end? Worse yet, would they in some way hold her responsible for Leo's death?

Opening the small trunk that sat next to her bed, she pulled out the wall painting fragment and Leo's portrait, and set them on her dresser. She looked at Leo's face—smiling, charming—and found she could not remember any bad times with him, only good ones. He may not have been the most attentive of husbands, but he had been _her_ husband. Her throat tightened and she choked back a sob. To think that she had nearly betrayed him that night in Erik's tent. What kind of woman was she, to have even considered such a thing?

Once again, she read the letter he had started writing to her.

_I'm certain that by now, you are quite angry with me, and I shall apologize most abjectly when I return._

But that was never going to happen, was it. He would never be able to apologize to her. A tear slid down her cheek as she continued reading.

_I know you will tell me that I am gullible, that someone is pulling my leg, but Lizzy dearest, I do not think this is the case. I have hired a gentleman who is quite knowledgeable in such things, and he, too, has heard these rumors of a hidden cache of funeral goods._

She shook her head and looked again at his picture. "You poor, dear, misguided man. Why couldn't you have shared this with me? Did you trust me so little? Or was it because you wanted to impress me?"

Images of what they'd found in the tomb continued to haunt her. Erik said it was difficult to tell what had happened. How had he died? Was there an accident? Had he injured himself, broken a leg, and not been able to crawl out? She imagined him dying alone, and that hurt even more. She swallowed back more tears. "No one should have to suffer such a fate."

As she sat on the edge of her bed, another thought struck her. The villagers had spoken of two men. What had happened to the other man? Why hadn't he tried to help Leo? She remembered Leo's journal tucked safely into her reticule and retrieved it, opening it to the last entry he'd made.

_December the 8__th__ – 3 o'clock – the great hypostyle of the temple of Karnak. Undiscovered cache near Tell el-Amarna – Tut-Ankh-Aten._

She stared at the page, silently willing it to release whatever secrets Leo had withheld from her. A cold shiver went down her spine as she remembered the attack in Erik's shop and the note warning him not to get involved in her husband's business. The awful truth dawned on her. This was not a simple case of an accident. There were diabolical forces at work here, more than met the eye. Though she didn't want to trouble Erik any further, she knew she would have to approach him about this and see if he had any thoughts on the matter.

But later, not tonight. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Later.

-0-0-0-

The _Eye of Horus_ docked at Luxor. Elizabeth was eager to return once more to her own quarters. She looked around at the city that had once been warm and friendly, but that now seemed lonely and forlorn. Had the place changed, or was it only her?

"I'll escort you home," Erik said to her.

"Thank you, but there's no need. Ra'id will be with me. Besides, I notice you've been limping a bit. Perhaps you need to get some rest yourself."

Erik rubbed his right thigh. "It's from that damned…I mean, that blasted scorpion sting. The leg still tingles from time to time."

Elizabeth allowed herself the luxury of laughing at his slip of the tongue. Was it all right for a newly made widow to laugh? She wasn't sure, but then again, she didn't care. There would be plenty of time for mourning. For the moment, she wanted to feel happy and normal. "You needn't apologize for your language, Monsieur Rien. I am quite accustomed to the way that men talk," she teased.

"So, it's back to Monsieur Rien, is it?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he caught the gentle hint of levity in her voice. "Have we returned to such formalities?" He took pleasure in the shy smile that crept across her mouth. In those first days after discovering Leo's body and during most of the trip back to Luxor, she had been distant and withdrawn, but now she was beginning to soften a little. This was good.

"Only in public, sir," she said, trying to be coy.

"Excuse me," said Ra'id, interrupting their conversation. "I have everything ready, Sitt. I have hired a wagon to take us back, and have your trunks and other articles loaded. Let me know when you are ready to leave."

"Thank you, Ra'id." She turned back to Erik, now more serious. "We need to pay a call on Officer Asmari," she said. "I'm not looking forward to that."

"Neither am I, but it must be done."

"I'll also need to call upon the British Consulate."

"I would be happy to escort you to both. Will you be up to doing so tomorrow?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Good. Shall I pick you up?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Meet me here, in the park, at 10 am."

Arrangements made, Elizabeth and Ra'id made their good-byes to the others and headed out towards the ancient temple, while Erik and his group made their way to his house.

-0-0-0-

"Brackenstall Expedition / 1885-1886." That's what the hand-painted sign hanging over the door of their little hut proclaimed. She looked around empty encampment. Gone were the tools – the picks and shovels – and the sounds of men working with them, digging and sifting through the sands. The _fellaheen_ who had worked for her husband were long-gone, having found employment in other places.

All that remained was a vacant landscape, the desiccated remains of what had once been a lively encampment.

With hesitant steps, she entered the little hut she and Leo shared. Staring back at her was her desk. She opened the drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper, an inkwell and a pen. She dreaded her next task but knew what had to be done, that she must write two letters. The first one was to Leo's parents. This one would be formal.

The second one would be to her father. This letter would be much warmer, more personal. Once written, she folded the letters, slipped each into its envelope, and then addressed them both. She slipped them into her reticule, to take to Luxor tomorrow.

That out of the way, her next task was to go over the expense ledgers and determine who still needed to be paid, making notes as she went along—how much money she would need to pay off the last of the site's debts and close up shop for good. Erik had offered to cover her expenses. This was something she hesitated to do, because she wasn't sure if there would be enough money in Leo's estate to repay him. She was a proud woman and borrowing from a friend under such circumstances smacked of accepting charity.

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Erik and Elizabeth found themselves in a familiar situation—seated across from Officer Asmari. Once again, Erik was dressed in dark Eastern garb. This time, Elizabeth understood the need for him to do so, and appreciated his ability to create this persona that helped conceal his own inner feelings of inadequacy. She herself had not had time to purchase mourning clothes, and so was dressed in a simple yet elegant walking dress, gloves and hat.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Asmari asked, a note of condescension coloring his voice. He set aside the meal he was eating, something non-descript and greasy, and wiped his hands on his pants. It was obvious that he had little desire to spend time with two Europeans.

Erik cast a sidelong look at Elizabeth, silently cautioning her to say nothing. Outside, he had explained that it when it came to Asmari, it would probably be easier if he did most of the talking. She recalled the man's uncooperative attitude the last time she'd been here, and fully agreed. They hadn't revealed their reason for coming to the police station yet, and so Erik asked, "Did someone say that we were looking for something?"

Asmari waved Erik's question aside as if it were of little consequence. "Why, everyone knows you went out in search of the lady's husband."

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Everyone? I wasn't aware that a little-known Englishman would be on _everyone's_ mind."

The policeman ignored Erik's barbed comment. He pulled out a tablet of paper from the desk drawer and began writing. Elizabeth did nothing to disguise her curiosity as to what he was writing.

_Here we go again, pretending to look like we know what we're doing. _

"Where did you find him?" he asked. "Were you able to determine how the gentleman died?"

Elizabeth gasped. Erik frowned and reached over. He took Elizabeth's gloved hand into his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. _Leave this to me,_ his eyes were saying to her. "It is impossible to say," he said to the officer. "Perhaps an unfortunate accident."

The little man actually smiled at that. "Yes. An accident. How unfortunate, but nothing we can do about that." He made some more notes, but by this point, it was obvious that as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. Asmari tendered false sentiments of condolence to the lady, assuring them both that he would keep his ear open and let them know should he hear any mention in street gossip of the circumstances surrounding the death of the unfortunate husband. "Treasure hunters and grave robbers," he murmured. "Always running off and getting themselves in trouble."

"No doubt," Erik said coldly. "No doubt. Come," he said to Elizabeth, "I believe our business is concluded here."

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth was fuming. She had understood Erik's signal and kept silent while inside, but now she was brimming with questions. "Oh! That…that odious man! How…how dare he! Treasure hunters! Grave robbers! And how did he know Leo was dead? I'm not wearing widow's weeds, we did not bring Leo's body back with us, we posted nothing in the newspapers and neither you nor I ever mentioned the reason for our call."

Erik led her to the park where they found a vacant bench near some flowering shrubs. "I agreed that Asmari's behavior is suspicious, but not unexpected. I could give the man the benefit of the doubt and suggest that news of this sort travels fast in a place like Luxor. After all, we told Captain Hassan of your husband's death. It's not improbable that some of the crew either overheard us speak of it or that Hassan mentioned it in passing. On the other hand, we do not want to underestimate Asmari."

Elizabeth's face wrinkled into a grimace. "I don't understand."

"Remember the first time you visited Asmari, to report Leo missing? I mentioned then that he is corrupt and susceptible to bribery. And there's another reason. You noticed how eager Asmari was to know what we thought of Leo's death, how relieved he appeared when I told him it was evidently an accident?"

"Yes, but…couldn't he simply be relieved at not having to open an investigation?"

"There's more, Elizabeth." He paused. This was going to be awkward. "I haven't been completely forthcoming with you, and I suspect you're not going to like what I have to say."

"And here I was beginning to trust you," she said, trying to make a joke. She saw that Erik was very solemn. "Go on. I'm listening."

"I'm serious, Beth." There, he'd done it again, called her Beth without realizing it, and she did not correct him. "Leo's death was no accident. He was murdered."

It felt like a fist to her stomach. This revelation of Erik's was like learning of Leo's death for the first time, all over again. It knocked the breath out of her. "Are you sure? I mean…his body. There…there wasn't much left to see. It was…badly decomposed."

"Not enough to hide the fact that his throat had been slit."

Erik cringed as he heard how harsh his words sounded and feared the graphic images they must conjure in her mind. "If it helps," he added quickly, trying to add some solace, "he died quickly. Your husband did not suffer. He may not have even realized what was happening to him. He would have lost consciousness quickly and simply...fallen asleep."

Elizabeth sat silently, looking out towards the Nile, staring at the rippling ribbon of blue. "You kept this to yourself. Why didn't you tell me right away?"

Erik gave an eloquent shrug of a shoulder. "You were already deeply upset. I did not want to distress you further. It would have accomplished nothing. If it makes a difference, I didn't like doing this…and I am sorry."

She reached over and took his hand into hers. "Thank you. I know you were only thinking of my best interests. And you're right; I don't know how I would have handled it back there, but now that you've brought the matter up, there are some things that have been troubling me." Elizabeth shared with him the misgivings she'd had on the boat trip back to Luxor.

"I, too, have been worried about what happens next. I admit to having had a restless night and almost came to your camp during the night to set my mind at rest myself that all was secure."

"And I would probably have grabbed my shotgun and fired first, then asked questions."

Erik gave a chortle. "You have a shotgun?"

She nodded. "Like most of his friends, my husband was a fowl hunter. And I am a very good shot with it, too."

"I know this may sound unusual, and I do not want to put you in an awkward position, but I would like to suggest that you consider being my guest for a few weeks—for as long as you wish, until matters are settled."

She sighed deeply. "I was planning to stay at the Winter Palace hotel. I'm not one who typically gives a fig for what others think, but I don't need the additional trouble that might come from staying with an unmarried man."

"There will be no hint at impropriety," said Erik. "You must realize I wouldn't make this offer if I thought it could impugn your reputation in any way. There is small guest suite detached from the main house. It is completely separate from the main building. I assure you, everything will be open and above board. And besides, no one need know about it. If you don't tell, I won't either. Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eye. "You can bring along your blunderbuss."

She smiled. His offer was being made in good faith, and it would be nice to be among people she knew rather than surrounded by uncaring strangers.

"You can bring Ra'id along if you like. In fact, he'd probably like being closer to Safa. And I'll be able to keep an eye on things." _Keep my eyes on you,_ he wanted to say but didn't.

"What good will that do me when you go to Amarna to bring back Leo's body?"

"I'll take care of all the arrangements. You won't be alone. At the very least, there will be A'aqil and Safa, and Talibah. Why don't you come and see the accommodations first before making up your mind? We can then send word to Ra'id, who can have your belongings brought here."

"Before we do that, there's one other thing I need to do. I must go to the British Consulate and send word of my husband's death to his family."

"Shall I accompany you there as well?"

"That would be greatly appreciated."

-0-0-0-

The visit to the consulate turned out to be almost as unbearable as dealing with Asmari. Upon entering the building, a large colonial-style mansion, they were greeted by a supercilious, impeccably dressed young man with a pinched face. "May I help you?" he asked, staring down his nose while making no attempt to hide his inspection of Erik.

Erik sneered back. "And you are…?"

The young man pulled himself to his full height, which barely reached Erik's chin. "I am Mr. Jacob Pleydell-Bouverie, undersecretary to the Right Honorable…"

The name caught Elizabeth's attention. "Pleydell-Bouverie? Are you related to Lord Wiltshire?"

Pleydell-Bouverie puffed up with pride. "My third cousin twice removed."

Erik snorted. "A nobody, then," he murmured under his breath to Elizabeth, who put her fan to her face to cover her smirk. He turned his attention back to the undersecretary, impatient with the young whelp's lack of manners and not giving a fig whose secretary or cousin the man was. "Mr. Playbill-Reservoir," he said, taking pleasure in deliberately mangling the young man's name, "we are here under the most inauspicious circumstances."

"But of course," Pleydell-Bouverie replied, bristling at the implied insult while still making no effort to move. "How may I be of service?"

Erik and Elizabeth exchanged glances. "I am Monsieur Erik Rien and I am here with the Honorable Mrs. Leonidas Brackenstall. You might start by offering the lady,"—and he emphasized the word _lady_, calling up the voice he once used to terrify ballet rats and opera house managers—"a chair and a cool drink."

The young man coughed nervously and tugged at his collar. "Yes. Forgive me." He gestured them to a small parlor off the main room, inside which was an elegant desk and several comfortable chairs. With the tinkle of a bell resting on the desk, he summoned a servant to whom he gave orders for refreshments to be served, and then offered his guests a seat.

Erik stepped forward and held out a chair for Elizabeth, who gratefully accepted it. The afternoon heat was seeping inside in spite of the cool marble interior, and she removed her gloves. Accepting the iced tea the servant brought to them, she took a sip before stating their purpose.

"Mr. Pleydell-Bouverie, we have come to see you about my...." A surge of grief washed over her. "My husband," she continued, her eyes growing teary. "I fear I must report that he died among the ruins in Amarna." She accepted the handkerchief Erik held out to her. "Forgive me, dear friend," she said softly to him. "I seem to always be forgetting my own." She dabbed at her eyes, not wishing to irritate them further.

The corners of undersecretary's mouth twitched into something that might have been a grimace, or a grin. "Died? Oh dear. That is…inauspicious," he said, a touch of disdain to his tone.

"This is not a laughing matter," Erik growled. "Pay attention, _boy._" Damnation, but the young pup reminded him of Raoul de Chagny in all the wrong ways.

Pleydell-Bouverie recovered. "My apologies," he mumbled. "But how may I help?

"I need your assistance in informing my husband's parents, Lord and Lady Brackenstall, of their youngest son's unfortunate....demise." She choked out the last word. "Also, my father." She cried softly, and reached for Erik's hand, holding it tightly.

Pleydell-Bouverie looked at Erik suspiciously. "What do you know of this matter?"

"Very little. Brackenstall contacted me before leaving for Amarna, seeking a partnership for his expedition.

"And did you provide it?"

"I am not in the habit of throwing away my money. Brackenstall was misled into believing he would find the mythological tomb of Tut-ankh-aten."

Pleydell-Bouverie gave a little laugh, then realized his lapse of manners and covered his simpering with his hand. "Ah, yes. Another aristocrat in search of buried treasure."

Elizabeth's head shot up and she stared daggers at the man. "Indeed, sir!" she snapped. "You are speaking of my husband. My...dear, late husband." Her tone dared him to challenge her.

"All that is required of you," said Erik, "is to inform the Brackenstalls of this unhappy news. I believe she has some letters she would like to have sent back to England."

At the mention of the letters, Elizabeth retrieved them from her reticule and passed them across the desk to Mr. Pleydell-Bouverie. "I thought you might send them by diplomatic pouch. The sooner my father-in-law receives word of this most unfortunate event, the better."

He picked them up and read the addresses. He noticed there was no return address and asked, "And should there be a reply to the widow...I mean, to Mrs. Brackenstall?"

"I will be staying— " she started to say, but Erik interrupted.

"She is under my protection."

The undersecretary lifted an eyebrow.

"Monsieur Rien means that I have accepted his gracious invitation to stay as his guest, in a separate wing of his home. My husband would have wanted me there, rather than alone at our dig site."

"Yes. Quite." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Shall I inform the Brackenstalls of your address?"

"Certainly," Elizabeth said archly. "Also inform them that I shall be returning my husband's remains to England on the first ship you are able to book passage."

"Passage befitting the widow of the Right Honorable Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall," Erik added pointedly, making full use of Leo's title. He was glad to be wearing his _keffiyeh_; it hid the giant smirk on his face.

Pleydell-Bouverie nodded, looking for all the world as if he had just swallowed something bitter. "I shall endeavor to make every accommodation for Mrs. Brackenstall's comfort." He turned his attention to Elizabeth. "Will you be traveling alone, Madam?"

"I shall, unless my man Ra'id and his intended bride are able to accompany me."

"I'm not sure that will be possible," Erik said to her. "They are planning to be wed within the month."

Elizabeth's face wrinkled into a frown. The thought of traveling without a familiar face at her side upset her more than she'd thought it would. "But…they could be married in England."

"Without A'aqil?" Erik said. "That wouldn't be satisfactory."

"Then...oh well...I see your point."

Pleydell-Bouverie coughed. "Perhaps I should let you two settle these matters in private."

Erik rose from his chair. "That isn't necessary. I will wait outside for Mrs. Brackenstall, while you conclude your business." And he exited the room to wait in the foyer. It was only a few minutes before Elizabeth stormed out, her face red with anger.

"Blasted bureaucrat! How dare he suggest..."

"What? That there is something inappropriate about my guest accommodations? It is detached from the main building, for goodness sake."

"No, it's not that at all. It's was his suggestion that Leo left me. First Asmari, now _him_." She looked at him with pain-filled eyes. "Am I such a shrew?"

This latest hurtful insult to Elizabeth's character riled Erik. "Is that what that insignificant bureaucrat said? Believe me, you are _not _a shrew. Wait here; I'll have a talk with him..."

She grabbed him by the wrist. "Please, just take me home. I mean, back to your home. I...I'm tired."

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I only meant to make it easier for you, not more difficult."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said as they walked out of the building. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Erik nodded._ Nor I without you._

-0-0-0-

Upon returning, Elizabeth found Safa desperately trying to beat back the dust. Ra'id was also on hand, bringing in luggage and those few furnishings she had indicated that she would take with her from the dig.

"I'll go back and pack up the rest of the artifacts," he said, and excused himself, but not before giving Safa a wink.

Safa's eyes followed Ra'id out the door, and then she returned to the task at hand – making the room presentable. "My master doesn't have many visitors," she said with a weak smile as she shook out a brightly patterned rug, releasing a cloud of dust, and coughed. "We had hoped to have everything ready by the time you and Master Erik returned. We want to make sure you will be comfortable."

"Yes," sputtered Elizabeth, waving her hand to clear away the dust. "I am sure I will be." She looked around the Spartan room, which at present had no decoration. It was bare, stark...

"My master uses this as an extra storeroom, when he uses it at all," the young girl said quickly, wanting to reassure the Sitt. "But you wait and see. There are extra furnishings waiting to be brought in here. By nightfall, it will be refurbished in soft colors, with plenty of pillows. And I shall even pick a modest flower arrangement from the garden and bring it in here." She continued showing Elizabeth around. "See? Here is a bathroom, and a sitting room. And over here? This door opens onto the courtyard. Perhaps you would like to rest out there, while I finish up in here?"

Elizabeth accepted the girl's advice, and by evening, it was as Safa had predicted. The once-barren guest quarters were converted into an oasis in the desert, a place of comfort, a home away from home. Elizabeth was pleased when she was at last able to wash up and slip into a more comfortable caftan. Wanting nothing more than to relax, she lowered herself onto the bed, allowed her head to sink into a sea of soft pillows, and closed her eyes.

-0-0-0-

Erik felt out of sorts. Even with the new additions to his household, he felt lonely and a tad sorry for himself. _Stop it, you fool. What did you think, that she would come running into your arms?_

He went into his music room and looked at the instruments on display. The one that caught his attention was a plain violin once played while on a barge that plied the canals of central France. He stared at the instrument and knew what he had to do. For most of his life, music had been his only solace, the balm that soothed his tortured soul. Through music, he had been able to live…and love.

When he'd come to Egypt, he vowed to start a new life and wanted nothing to do with the old. The Phantom of the Opera was dead, and with him had died his music. For five years, Erik had allowed himself to look at these instruments he'd collected, but not to play them.

That chapter of his life was over, or so he'd tried to convince himself. Now, he realized that the music inside was not dead, but had only been lying dormant. It had been waiting to be awakened from its slumber, and now that it was aroused, it demanded attention. He had no choice now, and reached out to the violin, thinking about how long it had been there, a cold, impersonal artifact on display. To have neglected it was shameful.

Erik flexed his fingers. It had been so very long ago since he'd last touched bow to strings that he wondered if he still remembered how to play. His fingers were no longer nimble, but felt clumsy and thick. He picked up the bow and tightened it up, and likewise tightened the strings of the violin before he tucked it under his chin, but the ends of his keffiyeh got in the way. He considered removing it. Hadn't Elizabeth and the others encouraged him to do so when in the privacy of his house? Very well, if his face did not trouble them, then that is what he would do. Grabbing it by one end, he pulled the headscarf off and tossed it aside. He inhaled deeply, relishing the freedom of movement.

Picking up the violin, he prepared once more to play. He drew the bow across the strings, attempting to coax the first tentative notes but his efforts resulted in nothing more than a barely perceptible squeak.

"Safa!" he called out. "Where is my rosin?"

She popped her head in the doorway. "Resin? What is resin, Master?"

"Not resin. Rosin. It's the sap from a tree used to…." He saw the perplexed look on the girl's face. "Oh, never mind!"

Safa rolled her eyes and shook her head. She had no idea what her master was talking about and backed out of the room. She had more important things to attend to than waste her time looking for tree sap.

He searched the room, opening desk drawers, and at last found an old piece of rosin. Preparing the bow, he made a second attempt. This time the results were better, but still not what he wanted. He tuned the strings and made one more try. At last, he achieved the results he sought, taking pleasure in the sweet, dulcet tones of the instrument.

A smile broke out as he remembered a group of bargemen sitting on the deck of a boat, and without giving the matter any further thought, began to play "The Bridge at Avignon." It was a relatively simple tune, but as his confidence grew, the music flowed more freely and soon he began to create improvisations. The mood of the music changed and he began to compose on the spot, the music allowing him a freedom denied him on earth, to be unbound from this hideous flesh that was his body.

He lost himself in the journey of the music, and his song descended into one long, terrible and magnificent sob, leading his soul into an abyss of loathing and self-hatred, but then rose. It was as if Sorrow had become deified, and then, the notes rose like a phoenix from the ashes. The notes gathered together, prodigious and menacing, and took flight, spiraling upwards towards heaven -- from tragedy to triumph. Ugliness was lifted on the wings of Love and dared to look into the face of Beauty…into the face of Elizabeth Brackenstall.

The music stopped, and he took the violin away from his chin. No, this would never do. He would not do to Elizabeth what he had done to Christine; he would not force his ugliness upon her. A soft sigh brought him back from his reverie, and he turned to see Beth sitting in the far corner.

"Don't mind me," she said. "Please, don't stop on my account. It's lovely...it makes me...." She started to cry.

Erik was at her side in quick steps. "I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, and dropped to his knee in front of her, holding violin and bow in one hand, and lifting her chin with the other hand. "I'm sorry. I won't play again."

"Don't say that. It would...it would break my heart if I thought I might never hear you play again."

"Elizabeth...." he said softly, her name floating on the air like a whisper. "Beth…"

She leaned her forehead against his. "Why do I always come to you for comfort?"

He turned his head so that his mangled flesh would not touch her perfect complexion, but he did not pull away. "Because we're friends," he said softly. "It's what friends do for one another, is it not?" He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "Here. You might need this."

She dabbed her eyes and smiled quietly. "Will you play some more? Something lively and cheerful? I am in need of cheering."

"But, of course. What would you like to hear? Sarasate? Paganini, perhaps? His Caprices are quite sprightly." He stood back up, resumed his position and played. He started off by playing a couple of Nicolo Pagaini's _Caprices_, then moved to Pablo de Sarasate's _Romanza Andaluza_. He finished off the impromptu concert with some improvisations of his own, based on Beethoven's Violin Concerto. By the time he'd finished, his fingertips were terribly sore. It had been so long since he'd played that he no longer had the calluses that allowed the violinist to press on the strings with comfort.

Elizabeth sat through it all, entranced by the music and the man performing it, not wanting the evening to ever end. When it music came to an end, she applauded enthusiastically. "Bravo, Monsieur! Your mastery of the violin is…breathtaking!"

Erik found himself blushing with pride. "It's…it's nothing," he muttered, trying to make light of his achievements. He put the violin away and tugged on the bell pull.

Safa popped her head in the door. "Are you still up, Master? What is it now?"

For the first time, Erik glanced at the window and saw that night had fallen. "What time is it?"

Safa motioned to the clock on the desk. "I believe it is past nine." She noticed Elizabeth in the room. "Can I bring the two of you something? Supper, perhaps?"

"Yes," said Erik. "We could both use something to eat. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Brackenstall?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"Something light. Don't go to any great trouble," Erik instructed.

"Oh, it won't be any trouble at all, now that Talibah has taken over the kitchen." She saw the reddened tips of his fingers. "Oh, Master! What have you done to your hand?"

He looked down and grimaced. "It's nothing," he said, making a fist to hide the damage. "It's been a while since I played the violin, that's all."

"I think I should bring a bowl of ice along with your food. Your fingertips look cracked and torn. I'll ask Talibah if she has any cures for cuts." Before Erik could stop her, she dashed off to the kitchen, leaving him alone with Elizabeth once more.

"Music is important to you," she said. "I remember your collection of instruments from that first day I called upon you. And then, when we went to Amarna and you sang for us. I am surprised that with such talent, you never pursued a career in this field."

"Who says I didn't?" Erik said, the room suddenly closing in on him, making him uncomfortable. "I told you once of my past."

She nodded. "Yes. A horrible story. A lesser person would have succumbed to madness under similar circumstances. Is that what helped you make it through the bad times? Music? I'm sorry. I'm asking too many personal questions. Forgive me."

He looked into her eyes and saw sincerity. She wasn't being morbidly curious; she genuinely cared. His mood softened. "There was a time when I nearly drowned in madness, but you're right. It was music that rescued me."

Before he could say anything else that he might later regret, there was a knock on the door. It was Safa and Talibah carrying in trays with food and beverages…and a small bowl of ice chips.

"Shall I stay here and ensure the Sitt is not imposed upon?" the old woman queried, cocking an eye at Erik as she set the table.

Erik glared at the old woman and mumbled something about a cheeky old crone, but Elizabeth laughed. "No, Talibah. That will not be necessary. If anything, it is I who am imposing on Monsieur Rien. After all, I've invaded his home, his privacy—"

Erik interrupted her before she could continue. "It wasn't an invasion. You are my guest." He unclenched his first and studied the swollen, cracked fingers on his left hand. He had literally played until they bled.

"Erik!" Elizabeth gasped. She leaned forward and took his hand in hers, looking at the damage he'd done. "You…you played too long. You shouldn't have done so."

"I didn't notice." He shrugged in that way of his. "It is one of the sacrifices one makes for his music." He stared at her in awe as she held his hand. "It isn't important." Her acceptance of him, in all his ugliness, was never more clear to him at that moment. No woman had ever held his hand this way, and he doubted he would ever experience such a pleasant sensation again. "Please, don't fuss." His lips parted in wonderment. "The ice chips will work wonders, I assure you."

She dabbed at his fingertips with the handkerchief he had given him but when she had staunched the blood, she kept hold of his hand. "There," she said, smiling brightly. "Better?"

He tried to respond, but his voice cracked. "Much," he croaked. _It's hopeless,_ he thought. _I'm helpless to avoid it. I am falling in love with her, and there's nothing I can do to stop it._

Talibah winked at Safa, and the two of them slipped out of the room while Erik and Elizabeth sat down to eat.

-0-0-0-


	25. Warning Shadows

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 25  
Warning Shadows**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_For every joy, there is a price to be paid.  
_~Ancient Egyptian Proverb

Asmari nervously made his way down a narrow back street. The hour was late and the night was moonless, making the path he was following murkier than usual. More than once, he stumbled over unseen obstacles, cursing repeatedly. In the distance, a dog brayed…or was that the howl of a jackal? Asmari swallowed hard. He was not normally a superstitious man, but jackals were often the harbingers of bad luck and that was the last thing he needed. Disoriented, he stopped to get his bearings and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. The idea of initiating a call upon one of Luxor's most powerful underworld figures was enough to make anyone ill at ease, but he reminded himself that if this meeting was successful, the rewards would be well worth the effort and any discomfort.

At last, he saw the house he was looking for. There was nothing to distinguish it from many another modest dwelling in the city. No colonial overlord lived here; the style bore little resemblance to the European mansions found in the wealthier part of town. It wasn't a hovel, either. No, it was the home of a well-off, but not flamboyant, "native."

Asmari knocked on the door and waited. There was no response. He shuffled his feet and knocked again, louder. He was determined to wait as long as necessary. Someone was home; he could see the dim light seeping out from between the cracks in the shutters that covered the windows. After several agonizingly slow moments, he heard the shuffling of footsteps. The knob turned and the door opened.

"What do you want, disturbing my master's household at this hour?" The servant who answered the door was sullen, obviously not appreciating being disturbed this late at night.

Asmari drew himself to his full height, which might have been more impressive if his burgeoning girth hadn't hung over his belt. He sneered. "Do as I say, you paid lackey. I must speak to your master. Now."

The servant did not budge. "The hour is late. My master has already retired for the night. Come back tomorrow." He made to shut the door, but the policeman stuck his foot out.

"Tell your master that Asmari is here with information he will want."

The servant did not respond immediately, his face inscrutable. Asmari was about the force his way past the man when the servant finally spoke. "Wait here," he said. The man turned his back to Asmari as if to walk away. Asmari started to follow him inside, but the servant quickly shut the door in his face, forcing Asmari to continue his wait outside. He satisfied himself by listening to the other walked away. He paced and huffed, only the silence keeping him company.

After a few minutes, the man returned. "Follow me," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, and escorted Asmari down a hallway and opened to door to a dimly lit room. "Master," the servant said, bowing deeply. "The man called Asmari to see you." He backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Asmari inhaled sharply when he heard the snick of a latch being drawn into place. He was locked inside the room, and he was not alone.

The room was filled with a hodgepodge of antiquities and rare books. Statues of Egyptian gods and goddesses rubbed elbows with Greek amphorae, while papyrus scrolls were dumped together with leather-bound tomes. There was a window, but the curtains were drawn. What little illumination there was in the room came from an alabaster oil lamp sitting in a far corner, the flickering light revealing a bull of a man sitting impassively, his arms crossed over his chest. The man might have been a wrestler; he had almost no neck, and even the traditional Egyptian robe he wore failed to disguise the hard, muscled arms and chest, nor the wicked sword he wore at his side. Asmari felt his stomach tighten – a bodyguard.

The sound of shuffling papers drew Asmari's attention away from the bodyguard to the oversized desk in front of him…and the tall man sitting in the shadows behind it. "What is so important that you must intrude upon my house and disturb my rest?" the man asked. He sneered down his nose at Asmari, who nervously rubbed his greasy palms together. Asmari smiled obsequiously, exposing a row of crooked, rotten teeth crowding out of his mouth.

"It is the English woman," he said without preamble. He waited for an invitation to be seated, but none came forth. He looked around for a chair to sit in, but saw there was none. This did not bode well. Asmari tried to calm his pounding heart. "She's been to Amarna with the Frenchman, Rien." He spat out the foreigner's name, failing to disguise his contempt for the man.

"Ah, Rien. A most interesting man." He tapped his fingertips together and spoke so softly Asmari had to strain to hear him.

Asmari snickered with scorn. "Keeps his face covered. Have you ever wondered why?"

"No doubt he has a face only his mother could love. However, I am not interested in what you think of a dealer of antiquities who does not curry favor with you. State your business."

"I know that you are curious about the Brackenstalls. You will be interested to learn that Mr. Brackenstall has been missing for several weeks. Only yesterday, his wife returned from a trip to Amarna, where she went searching for him with the _firanji,_ the Frenchman."

"And?" the man behind the desk prompted.

"They found him."

An eyebrow shot up, but that was the only reaction Asmari got to his announcement. "He's dead," he said, frustration in his voice. "But I suspect you already knew that." He watched the other's reaction. This time, he was pleased to see that his comment struck a nerve. "Rien and the lady came to my office to make an official report of the English pig's death. I'm told that the body was in such bad condition that it was almost impossible to say how he died."

"Almost? They must have formed some idea."

"Their official story is that Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall died as a result of an unfortunate accident."

The man behind the desk steepled his fingers and proceeded to look bored. "Sad, but what does this have to do with me?"

Asmari smirked. Two could play these games. "Come. Do not play me for a fool. You and I, we have done business together before. We both know you've had dealings with Brackenstall in the past. In fact, I'm the one who directed him to you. A rich, foolish foreigner with dreams of grandeur, ripe for the picking. I've never steered you wrong in the past, have I? No, and I am not doing so now. I came as soon as I could because I knew this news was important to you. The Englishwoman and the _firanji_ may be saying publicly that they believe Brackenstall's death was an accident, but is that what they are saying…privately?"

"Continue," the other man said, waiting for Asmari to continue. "What else are they saying…privately?"

"They didn't say, but I could see that they were hiding something. The man hid his emotions well, but the woman? It was obvious that she thinks there has been foul play."

"Did they indicate what they are planning to do next?"

"No. They left without saying more."

The other man paused as he considered his next question. "Did either of them mention a map?"

"What kind of map?"

The man gave a vague reply. "A map. You know, X marks the spot? No? Then this is your assignment. Keep your eyes and ears open. Watch them. Observe them. Let me know what they do, where they go." He passed an envelope across the desk to Asmari. Asmari snatched it up and opened it, counted its contents and was satisfied with the sum. "Where is the lady staying? At the Winter Palace?"

"No. I followed them. She is staying with Rien."

"That is useful information. Thank you."

"How shall I reach you with my reports?"

"The usual method."

Asmari recognized that the interview was over and was about to leave when the man at the desk added, "And do not think to double cross me." He nodded to the bodyguard, who glared menacingly at Asmari.

The burly man stood up. Not as tall as Asmari, but powerfully built, he glared menacingly at the quivering cop. He wagged his tongue in Amari's face, a gesture that conveyed a sordid, unspoken threat of the basest kind. Asmari felt his knees shaking.

"I w-wouldn't d-dream of doing so," he stammered.

"Then we understand each other."

Asmari left the house, wishing he didn't understand the other man quite as well as he did.

-0-0-0-

Somewhere in a garden, birds twittered. Elizabeth lay in bed, listening to the birdsong after spending a night luxuriating in a real bed with a real mattress and real pillows. She hadn't enjoyed such comforts since coming to Luxor for the winter dig season with Leo. A sense of peace and calm had suffused her, but that feeling disappeared with the intrusion of Leo into her thoughts, to be replaced by pangs of guilt and confusion that knifed through her. She berated herself. How dare she be laying here, enjoying the extravagance provided by a man she hadn't even known a month ago while Leo lay dead, his body moldering in a makeshift grave at Amarna?

_But Leo left you almost a month ago, without even a good-bye. _

_Yes,_ she argued back with herself. _But he meant well._

But if that had been the case, why couldn't he have been more attentive? Why couldn't he have…? She forced herself to stop dwelling further on the matter. Nothing could change the past. What was done was done. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to get out of bed and then wondered why. It wasn't as if she were expected to help with household chores. In fact, she wasn't certain exactly what she was expected to do, but doing _somethin_g was better than being a slug-a-bed.

At that moment, there was a faint knock. "Are you awake, Sitt?"

Elizabeth smiled. It was Safa.

"It's almost eight o'clock," the young servant girl announced from the other side of the door. "You're normally up and about by this time. I was concerned. Did you sleep well?"

Elizabeth stretched and yawned, mumbled an acknowledgement and invited the girl in. She watched as Safa waltzed into the room, all sunshine and bright smiles. "Shall I draw a bath for you?" Safa asked.

"Really, there's no need for you to be waiting on me like this. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

"I am only following Master Erik's instructions, and even if I weren't, I'd do it anyway. You are an honored guest. It is right to attend you." She ignored Elizabeth's protestations and went into the bathroom, setting out towels and perfumed oils so that the honored guest could make her toilet. When she finished with that, she asked what Elizabeth would like for breakfast.

"Whatever Mr. Rien is having will be fine. Don't go to any trouble on my account."

"But Master Erik is gone. He rarely eats breakfast, and anyway, it's no trouble. Grandmother Talibah has taken over cooking duties. She is very grateful to have gotten out of that village and has told me that she will be happy to make you whatever you'd like."

The idea of a real breakfast was as alluring as sleeping in a real bed had been. What hadn't she had in a long time? "Eggs?" she asked, her mouth watering at the mere thought of fresh eggs. "Soft boiled eggs, maybe? Oh, and some toast and a cup of Earl Grey tea. With sugar and cream." She stopped to think. "Your master has tea in the house, hasn't he?"

Safa nodded. "He often takes iced tea in the warm afternoons."

Elizabeth looked at her meager wardrobe, trying to decide what she should wear today. "Where did Erik, I mean, Mr. Rien go?" she asked, not happy with the choices available to her.

Safa shrugged. "I'm not sure. He said he had a number of errands to run. He took Ra'id with him. I think they were going to make arrangements to bring your husband back. Forgive me, Sitt. I should not speak so carelessly in front of you."

"It's all right, Safa. You said nothing wrong. But I am wondering…. After breakfast, I would like to visit the bazaars. I need to find some more appropriate clothing. Mourning clothes."

"Oh, no. You're not to leave the house. At least, not alone, not without one of the men accompanying you. Master's orders."

"What?" Elizabeth sputtered. "Who does he…?" Then she recalled the conversation from the previous day and Erik's suspicions about Leo's death. "Very well. I'll wait for Mr. Rien to return. Perhaps I should ask him to take me to the bazaars."

Safa grinned. "Will serve my master right for leaving you alone," she said with a wink.

-0-0-0-

"It is very generous of you to offer to go to Amarna and retrieve Mrs. Brackenstall's husband." Erik indicated the lead-lined casket. 'I understand that touching the dead goes against the customs of your people.'"

"I feel it is my duty both to Mr. Leonidas and Mistress Brackenstall. We will say prayers over his body as we bring him home," said Ra'id. "Mr. Leo was a good man to work for. He never cheated the men, never worked them hard like other Europeans have. In these things, he was an honorable man. If I had any complaint against him, it was the way he took his lady for granted."

Erik made a grimace. "I still think I should accompany you. Captain Hassan says he can leave tomorrow. I have agreed to pay twice his usual rate if he can get you to Amarna and back in less than two weeks."

"No, _Effendi_. If what you say is true, that Mr. Leo's death was not an accident, it is better that you remain here to protect my mistress."

Erik was torn. His first instinct was to stay and protect Elizabeth, but he also felt duty bound to go back to Amarna. Ra'id pointed out that they still did not know if Leo's murder was an isolated incident, or whether the peril was still present.

"What makes you think the danger isn't confined to Amarna? What if the cutthroats were merely locals who took advantage of an Englishman who had dropped his guard?"

"Remember your shop," said Ra'id. "And I am not going unprepared." He pulled his robe aside to reveal an oversized pistol tucked into his sash. "I will also be taking men I have worked with before, men I know and trust."

Erik eyed the firearm, its metal glinting in the morning sun. "Impressive."

"And I know how to use it," Ra'id added proudly.

Erik gave in. Ra'id was an honorable and dependable man. "Very well, I shall leave you to work out the details of the trip with Captain Hassan. See me in the morning before you leave. I'll give you enough money to cover any unexpected expenses."

With that, Erik headed off to take care of his next chore – paying a call on The German. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Asmari lurking in the background. _Amateur,_ he snarled inwardly as Asmari's head bobbed conspicuously among the crowd_._

-0-0-0-

Ehrhart Riemenschneider was surprised when Erik called upon him. At least, he acted surprised. "I didn't realize you were back in town," he said jovially, giving Erik a friendly slap across the back.

Erik replied with a sneer. "Don't try to lie to me, Ehrhart," he said. "We both know your spies promptly informed you the moment the _Eye of Horus_ put into harbor."

The German grinned and instructed a servant to bring them something cool to drink. "Some iced tea for my abstemious friend here and the usual for me. Now then," he said, turning his attention back to Erik. "How may I help you?"

"I wanted to thank you for keeping watch over my property while I was gone. I am impressed that none of my inventory mysteriously disappeared during my absence."

Riemenschneider gave a shrug. "What can I say? Crime's gone down in Luxor."

"Too bad the same cannot be said for Amarna."

The German cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Did something happen? I was curious when I learned that Mr. Brackenstall did not come back with you. Did he decide to stay behind, protect whatever new site he's discovered?"

"Leonidas Brackenstall is dead."

"Oh dear. That's not good." He took out his cigarette case, placed one in the ivory holder he used, and lit it. "And now the lovely Elizabeth Brackenstall is a widow. How is she holding up?"

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances."

"What circumstances are those? What, you're not going to tell me? Could it be…Yes, that's it! You have set yourself up as the lady's protector!" He slapped his thigh and barked out a laugh. "Her knight in slightly tarnished armor! This is quite precious – the mysterious and enigmatic Erik Rien is smitten with the cold Englishwoman. So, tell your old friend, what happened at Amarna? Did you warm the cockles of her cold, cold heart? That's not all you warmed, is it?" He gave a conspiratorial wink. "Her bed, perhaps?"

Erik bristled. The murderous glint in his steely eyes warned the German off. "Whatever reputation I have is well earned, Riemenschneider, and don't you forget it. Mrs. Brackenstall is beyond reproach, especially from the likes of you."

"Oh, my dear man, you've…." He laughed some more. "Oh…I see. She's a true and proper lady, and she'll have nothing to do with you."

Erik concealed the fact that this harsh reality stabbed him in the heart, but he believed it to be true. "She loved her husband. She is grieving. Can you not leave it at that?" He stared coldly at Riemenschneider. "To suggest otherwise is beneath contempt. Only a Hun would make such a base implication."

"A Hun, is it?" Riemenschneider snickered. "My dear man, you really are head over heels. But out of consideration for the _lady's_ sensitivities, we'll leave her out of it. I seem to have overstepped my bounds. Now, tell your good friend Ehrhart why you really came here."

Erik lifted his _keffiyeh_ and took a sip of iced tea. The German had rattled his composure with his comments about Beth. He didn't need to let that come through. "Yes…_my friend_. I have another reason for calling on you."

The German chuckled. "I thought as much."

"I need information."

"What? Again? How often must I perform these services for you?"

"As often as I ask. That is, of course, unless you would prefer that I not direct sellers of excellent antiques at extremely low prices your way. Your network of observers is far more efficient than anything I could cobble together on the spur of the moment." He cocked his head to one side, conceding Reimenschneider's current superiority in such matters.

The German made a production out of sighing deeply. "This is true." He blew out a smoke ring and watched it drift lazily towards the ceiling as it slowly expanded and finally disappeared. "I like doing business with you, Rien. You amuse me."

Erik sat silent, resolute, while Riemenschneider considered whether to give him the information he sought

"So, tell me, Rien. What do you want to know?"

"What's Asmari up to these days?"

"Oh, the usual. Why, just yesterday he came by wanting to sell me information."

"About what?"

"About you."

"Why would you be buying information about me?"

"Oh, come now. Don't play coy. You know I collect all manner of things – antiques, information – by and about everyone. Even you. But I'm afraid Asmari had nothing I didn't already know. He said you'd gone to Amarna with your ladylove to search for said lady's husband. I already knew that. You'd asked me to watch your property, remember?"

"As I recall, you volunteered."

"Ahh…yes. This is so. He then said that you'd returned, without the husband. I knew that, too. Yes, you caught me in a little fib when I said I hadn't known you'd returned. Asmari seemed to think that I was somehow involved in the gentleman's disappearance. I wasn't. That's all. End of story."

"Have you heard of anyone else Asmari would be selling information to? He thinks he is being clever, but I've noticed him following me all day. Even if you don't care what I'm up to, somebody does."

The German rose from his chair and quietly paced. "There is somebody. You may recall my telling you about someone new in town? Whoever he is – and I'm afraid I know little more than I did the last time you called upon me – he is making a number of people nervous. Apparently his tactics are not as…discreet as mine."

"A thug?"

"Perhaps not personally but he's been known to employ them."

"What is he looking for?"

"Something about a map. Rumor has it that Brackenstall 'borrowed' one from our mystery man."

"Do rumors say what this map leads to?"

"Why, what else? Treasure!"

Erik let out a snort of disdain. This would have been just like Brackenstall to fall for a treasure map scheme. Is this why he died? Erik's forehead crinkled as he considered this possibility. The more he was learning about the late Leonidas Brackenstall, the more Erik was certain that he had been a first rate fool. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"I'm not sure. When you found Brackenstall, did you happen to find a map?"

"No," said Erik. He saw the distrust on Riemenschneider's face. "Cross my heart," he added, placing his right hand over his heart.

"Very amusing," replied Riemenschneider, without a trace of a smile.

"Here," Erik said, tossing a box to the German.

Riemenschneider opened the small package. Inside, nestled in cotton batting, was a bust of the heretic pharaoh, Khuenaten. "What's this?"

"Think of it as reimbursement for any trouble my requests may have put you through."

The German carefully picked up the statue and examined it. "Ugly fellow," he remarked, but his expression said that he was impressed.

"Don't worry, Ehrhart; it's genuine. I found it while we were camped near Amarna."

The German beamed with genuine pleasure. "Why, thank you, Rien. I didn't know you cared."

Erik replied with a devious grin. "Who says I do?"

-0-0-0-

On leaving the German's house, Erik headed to the bazaars. He needed to do something to get rid the bad taste Riemenschneider always left him with. He had no idea how far to trust Riemenschneider, but under the current circumstances, a man had to start somewhere. Giving him the Khuenaten statue had hurt more than the German would ever know. When Erik had initially found it, he'd set it aside with the idea of one day giving it to Beth. She, at least, would appreciate it for its true worth. To her, it would be more than just another bit of rare art to add to her collection. But he had needed to make an overture to guarantee the German's cooperation. So, the statue it was. Now, however, Erik needed to make up for the loss of the figure…even if he was the only one who understood the reason for doing so.

He found his way to the booksellers' stalls and browsed through numerous volumes. His first thought was to buy her a couple of books on Egyptology, but then dismissed the idea. Her father was an Egyptologist and had been for years. She, too, was an Egyptologist. Anything he bought, she would probably already have or would already have read.

Should he get her a novel? If so, what? He found a couple of books by Jane Austen. Did she care for tales of romance or was she the sort who enjoyed tales of adventure or speculative fiction? Did she care for fiction at all or was she the practical type who preferred her reading material to be rooted in reality? He sighed and set aside the Austen.

What were her interests besides Egyptology? He tried to remember things she'd told him, and then it struck him. Music. Last night, she had been drawn to the music. Very well, that's what he would seek. Erik asked the bookseller, an elderly man with an oversized graying mustache, if he had any books about classical composers, preferably in English.

"Yes," the merchant replied. "You're in luck." The man ducked inside the building behind his stall and came out with an armful of books. "A few weeks ago, an English family was leaving Luxor and did not want to take all their books back with them. Too much trouble packing, I suppose. I got these at a good price, which I am willing to pass on to you."

Erik looked through them. Among them were the memoirs of Hector Berlioz as well as biographies of Ludwig von Beethoven and Robert Schumann. "How much?"

The two men bartered. A price was agreed upon, and the bookseller neatly wrapped the volumes in brown paper and tied it with string.

"Here you are, sir. I am sure you will find them well worth the price. Do come again."

Erik smiled, accepting the package. "I'm sure I shall." He walked away, annoyed to see Asmari failing to hide among the crowd of shoppers. He wished that the man weren't quite so inept when it came to trailing someone. It would be far more interesting if he were better at this game…a game Erik knew only too well.

-0-0-0-

Note:

_Firanji – _Egyptian slang for Europeans, derived from "frank"—essentially, "Frenchy."

_Effendi_ - An educated or well-respected man in an eastern Mediterranean or Arab country; often used as a title of respect or courtesy in Turkey or a former Ottoman territory, which would describe Egypt at this time.


	26. The Game's Afoot

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Chapter 26  
****The Game's Afoot**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Nothing beside remains: round the decay  
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,  
The lone and level sands stretch far away.  
_**~Percy Shelley  
**

Erik glanced over his shoulder and muttered a curse. As expected, he picked out Asmari, who was trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the crowd. Damn, but that stupid man was still following him. It might have at least have provided a challenging diversion if Asmari had demonstrated any real talent in tailing a man, but he was as inept in this as he was at being a police officer. It was disturbing as well as annoying, disturbing because Erik's sixth sense told him that even though he had nothing concrete to base his surmise on, Asmari's actions were tied to Leo Brackenstall's death. The idea that this was a coincidence was something Erik would not accept. Long ago, he'd learned that there were no such things as coincidences. He considered his options, and allowed himself a wicked grin.

_Very well_. _Two can play this game._ _Time to teach you a lesson, my friend_.

The Phantom of the Opera might be dead, but the Angel of Death still remembered a thing or two from his past. Erik reached beneath his robe and fingered the length of rope tucked into his sash. Then he set off, once again enjoying the thrill of the hunt as he began to lead Asmari on a merry chase.

Erik picked his way through the crowded streets of the bazaars, slowing his pace so that his quarry did not lose sight of him. He could have easily given Asmari the slip, Erik mused, but where would be the fun in that? Always keeping his man in sight, he continued on his way. After a few minutes of cat and mouse, the crowds thinned out as he left the main streets and ambled down Luxor's less-traveled alleys and back roads. During the five years he'd lived in the city, Erik had made it a point to acquaint himself with the roads less traveled. It always paid to have a second or even a third route in mind when going out, even for an ordinary dealer in antiquities.

Having no crowds to blend in with, it became harder and harder for Asmari to keep his presence hidden. Frequently, he had to fall back, never realizing that this was what his "victim" intended. Erik continued on foot, all the while keeping a discreet eye on Asmari. He allowed himself a self-satisfied grin as he watched the situation play out. More often than not, the pudgy police officer was forced to duck into a doorway, hoping to remain concealed but also to catch his breath. Erik snickered. It was obvious that the man was not in the best of condition, and even with the slower pace, Asmari was soon panting like a dog.

_Yes, this will do splendidly. Keep him following you, tire the man out, then pick out the right place and moment for our little tête-à-tête. _

Once more, Erik took a quick glance back. By now, he and his quarry were in a deserted alley abutting a commercial district with large jars and crates laying about helter skelter, providing plenty of opportunity for a person to take cover. Asmari had once again stepped back into the shadows. During those few seconds when the policeman didn't have him in his view, Erik picked his spot and ducked between several large crates. He tucked the books aside and waited, setting his trap.

It didn't take long. Asmari remained in hiding a few seconds more, and then stepped out of the doorway. He made a wary scan of the alley but saw no one. The scowl on his face suggested his anger at having lost sight of his victim; he quickened his pace, his head pivoting back and forth. He walked past several very large jars that were tall enough to hide a man. Slowing down, he cautiously peered around them. Nothing. He exhaled loudly when a voice startled him.

"Looking for someone?"

Asmari spun around, surprised to find Rien, his devil's face concealed by the _keffiyeh_, his eyes flashing angrily. He responded with bluster of his own. "What do you mean, trying to terrorize me like this?"

Erik stepped closer, inches separating their faces. Asmari reached for his pistol, but before he could take hold of it, Rien spun him around. He felt a burning in his wrists as Rien grabbed hold of both and, forcing his arms in an unnatural position behind his back, pinioning the fleshy policeman against the wall of the building and relieving him of his weapon.

"Let me go," Asmari squirmed. "You're…you're hurting me."

"Oh?" said Erik, quite casually. "Am I? How careless of me." But he didn't let go. Instead, he increased the pressure of his hold, bringing tears to the policeman's eyes.

"You have no right to attack me," Asmari groaned, the pain growing so intense that it prevented him from giving any kind of struggle.

"And _you_ have no right to be following _me_," Erik replied menacingly.

"I'm…not…following you," the policeman panted, his hands growing numb as pain radiated up the insides of his arms.

"You're not? Are you telling me that it was mere coincidence that you followed Mrs. Brackenstall and me when we left the police station yesterday, that you just happened to be going in the same direction as my house? Is it also coincidence that this morning, you were hanging around the wharves when I was there, or that you were in the same neighborhood when I was visiting a friend? Did you just happen to be in the bazaars, walking down the same deserted streets as I am now? You must take me for a fool, but I assure you, I am not."

"You…you are assaulting an officer…of the Luxor police," Asmari whined.

"I am _assaulting _no one. I am protecting myself from a piece of slime." He applied more pressure to Asmari's wrists. Not enough to break any bones, but enough to intensify the already-excruciating pain.

Asmari let out a scream. "Aaiiiiyyyy! You're breaking my wrist! Unhand me or…I shall be forced to report this…to the Captain!" The words were brave, but not the tone of voice. Instead of bravado, the policeman's threat sounded more like sniveling.

"Go ahead!" Erik sneered. "Tell him whatever you wish. Who would believe that a mild-mannered antiques dealer could harm a big, strong, _capable_ police officer like you?"

Asmari's knees buckled and he would have fallen to the ground if Erik hadn't been holding him up. "Please don't hurt me!" he begged, giving up all semblance of bravery.

Erik took a deep breath and look with disdain upon the worm of a man. His wish to harm Asmari subsided, and he let the man go, watching dispassionately as the policeman went down in a crumpled mass, nursing his wrists. "I have no idea what you're up to, Asmari, but let this be a lesson to you! If you continue to annoy me, there will be consequences."

Picking up the books he'd set aside earlier, Erik walked away, refusing to look back at his fallen foe, his disdain for Asmari clearly showing that he felt Asmari was no threat. He placed the pistol on the ground, kicking it several feet away. Erik knew it would be several minutes before Asmari could move his hands, much less be able to hold any sort of weapon. He suspected that in spite of his warning, this would not be the last he would see of Asmari.

-0-

The rest of the trip home was blessedly uneventful. At least for now, Asmari had gotten the message and had no doubt crawled off to lick his wounds, leaving Erik and his household alone. But a thought nagged at him – what if Asmari was not working alone? What if he was working for somebody else?

"Damn!" Erik muttered, angry with himself. "I must be getting soft." He sighed heavily, castigating himself for this lapse in thinking. _Some Angel of Death you are. Never bothered to interrogate the prisoner properly, just let him off with a warning. _

He shook his head. There was nothing he could do about it now. "Water under the bridge. Can't imagine Asmari's sitting around, waiting for me to come back and ask him questions. But if I catch him nosing around again, well, that's another matter altogether."

Erik quickened his steps as he neared his house. He approached from the rear, looking for anyone or anything that did not belong. Satisfied that Asmari had no confederates spying in the neighborhood, Erik headed to the stables.

"Good afternoon, Effendi." It was Rashid the stable boy, an eager lad of 14 years, who greeted Erik.

"And to you," Erik replied. "How is your mother these days?"

The boy gave a toothy grin. "She is much better, sir. She says thank you for the medicines you sent. They relieve her pain very much, and the physician says she is much improved. May Allah bless you; you are a good man, Effendi, even for an infidel."

The boy's backhanded compliment gave Erik pause to laugh. He made a quick inspection of the stable, pleased to see that the horses were well tended and that all was in good order. "Rashid, have you noticed anyone hanging around lately? A stranger, perhaps? Someone asking questions he shouldn't?"

The boy made a face as he thought about the past few days. "Now that you mention it, there was a man. I'm not sure, but he might have been a policeman. At least he was dressed like one, but he was fat and smelled like a pig." Rashid wrinkled his nose for effect.

"Did he approach you?"

"Yes, Effendi. He asked if this was the house of Erik Rien. I told him yes. Was I wrong to have done so?"

"No. It was an innocent enough question and the fact that this is my residence is no secret. However, if he or anyone else approaches you again or appears to be loitering for no good reason, I want you to notify me immediately."

"Yes, Effendi. I shall do so."

Erik took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the boy, who caught it in mid-air. "For your efforts," he said as he headed for the kitchen door.

"Thank you, Effendi!" Rashid called back, delighted to have earned a little _baksheesh_.

Erik opened the back door, and was greeted by a scream. He looked to see who was being murdered and found it was old Talibah. The woman was standing by the table, her hand over her heart as she fought to catch her breath.

"You startled me, Master," she said between gulps of air. "You walk silent as a cat. If you keep this up, you will give this poor old woman a heart attack."

"My apologies, Grandmother" said Erik, feeling bad for having frightened the crone. He would have said more but the fragrant aroma of a lamb stew simmering on the stovetop caught his attention. Picking up the ladle, he slipped his _keffiyeh_ aside and took a taste.

"You're home now, Master. Take off your headscarf and enjoy a decent mouthful."

Erik hesitated, then did as she suggested. "Mmm…good. Is this for lunch? I had no idea you were such a good cook."

The old woman nodded, her crooked teeth peeking out from her smirk. "It is easy to be a good cook when the master of the house has a well stocked larder."

"Yes. Well, I admit that I have a fondness for good food," he replied. Initially, he had been reluctant to bring the old woman with them, but Safa had been adamant. "The grandmother" -- she insisted everyone address Talibah as grandmother, out of respect for her 50-some years -- was old and alone. She needed a decent home and taking her on as part of his household was the least her master could do. After all, the old woman had saved his life, had she not? And having someone to help with the cooking and cleaning would make Safa's job easier.

"But I'm only one person. Why do I need a larger staff? Besides, it will cost me more," Erik had said, partially in jest. Safa had given him her iciest stare, and he quickly gave in. He'd been surprised at how easily Talibah fit into the household regime, and it turned out that the woman was an excellent cook. The stuffed squab they'd had for supper the day before had been superb, and Erik could only wonder what kind of delicacies the old woman had in mind for tonight.

"Don't eat it all, Master Erik. You'll spoil your appetite for the kabobs I am making."

-0-

Elizabeth opened the package, her expression showing her delight in the unexpected gift. She was sitting in the chair that Erik had begun to think of as _her _chair, the one she had taken to sitting in whenever they went to the courtyard to talk. "Thank you. The books will be a welcome diversion on the voyage home," she said.

_Home_, Erik thought. _England, not Egypt. Definitely not Luxor_. He felt foolish, having allowed it to slip his mind that she would not be in Egypt much longer. She had done what few others ever had, she had shown him acceptance and did not display any repugnance at the sight of his uncovered face, and this had lulled him into forgetting that their relationship was anything but permanent. Once Ra'id returned with Leo's remains, she would be sailing away, likely for good.

"Yes…well…" he fumbled for words. Finally, he settled for, "You're welcome." The water in the fountain babbled, filling the silence that had grown between them. "Have you decided who you'll be traveling with?" he asked at last.

Elizabeth shrugged. "I don't need a traveling companion, or a maid for that matter. If need be, though, I can always call upon Mr. Pleydell-Bouverie. I'm sure he would be able to recommend someone appropriate."

They both laughed at the thought of the odious undersecretary going out of his way to find Elizabeth a proper traveling companion. Then she added, more seriously, "I'll be in deep mourning and not expected to mingle with the other passengers. That will be fine with me. In fact, under the circumstances, I prefer the idea of being alone."

Erik agreed, even if he did not like the idea of her leaving. "By all means, the proprieties must be observed."

"By the way, I shall need to put together a more appropriate wardrobe. I was wondering, is there any chance of visiting a clothier while we're in town?"

"Better than that, I can arrange for one to call on you. Down the street is a shop I've passed on numerous occasions. I'm sure the proprietor, Mme Chrétien, would be happy to come by tomorrow."

"Could you arrange that? I hate to continue intruding upon your kindness, but if you could do so I would very much appreciate it."

He tugged the bell pull, summoning Safa, and instructed the girl to go to Mme Chrétien's shop down the street and make an appointment for tomorrow. "It's not an intrusion," he said to Elizabeth, "and you'll want to look your best when you meet with your in-laws." He could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't looking forward to that.

"Once I'm back in England, I'll be expected to play the role of the grieving widow to the hilt."

"Are you saying that you don't grieve for your late husband?" Erik asked, confused and perplexed by such an admission. Was she saying that she had not loved her husband?

"No, it's not that at all. I only meant that my grief is personal and private. I despise all this display, this making a show of things. But that is exactly what Leo's family will expect of me. It would be best if I did not rock the boat too much, at least until my affairs in England are settled." She took a deep breath, contemplating her future. "Have you any idea what is expected of me as the widow of the late Leonidas Brackenstall, youngest son of Lord Ulysses Hiram Brackenstall?"

"I fear I must confess my ignorance on the subject," admitted Erik. "For most of my life, I have lived outside of society's bounds. Other than seeing the occasional woman in black, I have no other experience in the matter."

Elizabeth went on to explain that as the widow of a son of Lord Brackenstall she would be expected to observe twelve months of deep mourning and seclusion, wearing black crepe and a weeping veil. After that, there would be another six to twelve months of half mourning, when she would be able to graduate to grays and lavenders. During her deep mourning, she would not attend any amusements or entertainments. Instead, she would be expected to keep herself in seclusion.

Erik remembered his own grief when he lost Christine. She hadn't died, but that night when he released her to go with Raoul, the pain had been just as real. In the weeks that had followed, he had reverted to his old habits of hiding from the world. True, there had been the practical aspect of his having been a man on the run, but the effects were still the same. "Seclusion does not heal a broken heart," he said at last. "Being out in the world, being with people, this is what heals grief. You may not wish to attend parties or go out on picnics, but the last thing you should do is shut yourself away."

"You speak of this as though from personal experience. Did you once lose someone you loved?"

"Yes, in a way, I did."

He didn't offer any further explanation, and Elizabeth didn't press him for one, suspecting the person he spoke of was the mysterious Christine. She understood now that his past had been difficult. That he had opened up this much to her was nothing less than remarkable and showed that he truly trusted her, thought of her as a friend.

After several awkward moments of silence, Erik interrupted her thoughts. "But what about your family? You've mentioned your father on several occasions, as well as an aunt or two. What will they expect of you?"

She gave him a tentative smile. "Father and Aunt Millicent will understand. Both taught me to be self-sufficient. After spending a few weeks with my in-laws, I'll be joining my father in the Cotswolds. If I'm going to seclude myself, I'd rather do it up there where I don't have to worry about London society looking down its collective nose at me, judging my every move."

"That's a relief." Erik saw the puzzled look on her face. "A relief to know that you'll have your family's kindness and support. I envy you that."

"Why don't you accompany me?" Elizabeth asked impulsively.

Erik shook his head. "No. I can never return to the Continent. It would never do. You have your life and your world, and I have mine."

"And never the twain shall meet? Is that what you're suggesting?" She looked hurt.

Erik gave a ghost of a smile. "They may meet, briefly, but then each will continue on his or her separate way."

"This doesn't have to be the end, Erik. We'll remain friends, won't we? We can stay in touch with each other, write to one another…" She reached her hand out to him and then stopped when she saw the hesitation in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, forcing a smile. "Of course, we'll remain friends."

_But I don't want a friend_, she thought. _I want…Exactly what do I want?_ _Or…who?_

She looked around the room. She thought of how very much she felt at home here and how much she enjoyed being included as a member of his adopted family. Oh, she understood all too well that he would deny such closeness and affection for them all – A'aqil, Safa and now old Talibah – but even a blind man could see it, and this was when she knew how torn she was about leaving. It wasn't that she didn't know what she wanted – it was that she knew what she wanted but could not admit it, not even to herself.

Their conversation was interrupted when Safa returned to announce that an appointment with the seamstress has been made for tomorrow morning at 10 o'clock.

-0-0-0-

The next morning, after breakfast, the doorbell rang. Safa and Elizabeth were in the parlor when A'aqil announced that the seamstress had arrived.

Mme Thérèse Chrétien was a middle-aged woman of average height with hair a shade that some disparagingly called dishwater blonde. A young boy accompanied her and between the two of them, brought in enough bolts of fabric and ready-made clothes to outfit a small army. While the seamstress and Elizabeth discussed styles, Safa looked longingly at the fabrics, wondering if she could buy enough with the money she'd been saving from her wages to make her wedding dress.

Erik hung back in the doorway, making sure his presence would not be needed before disappearing into the privacy of his study.

"I can't. I can't accept such generosity," Elizabeth said, looking over at him, her expression both happy and sad. "You've been far too kind as it is."

"Nonsense. Mme Chrétien asks only a pittance for the privilege of having you wear their clothes."

"You mean, the widow of the late Leonidas Brackenstall."

"I mean, a Sitt who is highly regarded in Luxor by merchants and workmen alike. It's good for business, having a woman of your quality among their clients."

"This is true," said Mme Chrétien in her singsong voice. "A grand lady like yourself, wearing my creations? Why, my shop will be the talk of Luxor!"

"Well, since you put it that way. But I will not accept your charity, Mr. Rien. I will reimburse you as soon as—"

"Erik," he corrected her. "My name. It's Erik."

Elizabeth smiled shyly, not knowing why she suddenly felt warm flush come over her. "Erik," she repeated. "I will reimburse you as soon as—"

"It isn't necessary."

"Of course, it is necessary! It is only right."

"My hospitality is freely given. No strings attached. One does not pay for a gift, Elizabeth. A wise man once told me that."

"But…but I cannot continue taking advantage of your friendship."

"Haven't you learned by now? No one takes advantage of me. All I am saying, my dear, is that for once you shouldn't worry about the details. Let me do this for you. It is the least I can do, if it makes your...mourning...even the slightest bit more bearable."

_My dear. He called me "my dear." _She looked at him and saw that he hadn't even realized what he'd said. Was it possible? Could he possibly feel some of what she was feeling for him? _No! I'm a widow whose husband hasn't even been given a proper burial. Maybe…another time…_ She squelched further thoughts down. "I suppose I need _something_ to wear," she admitted. She bit her lower lip as she eyed the fabrics, including silk, crepe and bombazine. They may have been black, but they were of the highest quality. "Just a few things."

"Whatever you wish," he said, having already made arrangements with the seamstress to see to it that Elizabeth had a complete and proper wardrobe, as befitted a woman of her station. He saw Safa eyeing one of the bolts and guessed what she was doing. He suppressed a chuckle. "As long as I'm standing _in loco parentis_, we might as well consider what you should wear for your wedding, young lady."

Safa puckered her brow. "In loco-what? Master, you need to stop using words I do not understand."

"He means, since he is standing in place of your parents," Elizabeth explained.

"Oh, I see. But Sitt, does it not trouble you that we talk about my coming marriage to Ra'id, while you still mourn the loss of your husband?"

Elizabeth reached over and gave the girl a hug. "No, it does not," she said. "On the contrary, it cheers me greatly that there is happiness in the midst of this sadness."

Mme Chrétien smiled at Safa. "And what kind of wedding will you be having, my dear? Will it be a European or traditional local wedding?"

Safa looked over at Erik, questioningly. "Since you stand in place of my father, what is your wish?"

Erik shook his head. "The choice is yours."

The girl grinned. "I choose a traditional wedding of my people, with many colors and glittering things."

Mme Chrétien nodded in approval. "And I have just the thing for you. Back at my shop, I have many brightly colored silks and gauzes. We'll sew spangles and sequins and coins along the hems and on your veil. You will be the envy of Luxor! Come by tomorrow and pick out which colors you would like."

Seeing that his presence was no longer needed, Erik decided now would be a good time to escape to his den, away from the world of dresses and fabrics and laces, and catch up on his reading.

-0-0-0-

_Rien,  
__  
Meet me at the Great Hypostyle in one hour. I have discovered something that may be of interest to you. _

_~ER_

Erik was sitting at his desk and looked up from the note in his hand. "Who delivered this?"

A'aqil shrugged. "A boy, no older than 10, I'd say. He rang the doorbell, and when I answered, shoved it into my hand and ran off. Don't remember ever seeing him around here."

"Probably doesn't matter."

"Is it important?" the servant asked.

"I'm not sure. It's from the German."

"I thought I recognized the handwriting. What does he want?"

Erik folded the note and shoved it into a pocket. "He wants me to meet him at the Karnak temple. Says he's discovered something."

A'aqil wrinkled his nose. "Do you trust him?"

"No, but he doesn't trust me either, so that makes us even." Erik picked up his _keffiyeh_ and put it on. "If I'm to meet Riemenschneider at the appointed time, I'd better get going. Have Rashid saddle up César.

A'aqil went over to the cabinet on the far side of the room. "Here," he said, unlocking the door and taking out the pistol kept in inside. "You'll want this."

Erik tucked the gun in his sash. "Pass along my apologies to the ladies for having to leave on such short notice," he said as he headed for the door.

"Don't you want me to come with you?"

"No. I need you to keep and eye on things here. Don't worry; I know how to take care of myself."

A'aqil snickered. "It wasn't you I was worried about. But, what should I tell the ladies should they ask where you are?"

"Tell them I went out to meet an old friend."

-0-0-0-

One of the most popular tourist attractions in all of Egypt was the temple of Karnak. It was not one temple, however, but a sprawling conglomeration of several ruined temples, chapels, pylons and other buildings, combining the efforts of generations of Egyptians, similar the generations of builders involved in the construction of the medieval cathedrals of Europe. And it wasn't simply huge in area, everything about the temple complex was larger than life, like so much the ancient Egyptians left behind. Its entrances were flanked by huge pylons, dwarfing all who walked past them.

Erik passed through the second pylon, a huge wall that formed the front door and entered the Great Hypostyle, where Reimenschneider had written they were to meet. It was one of the most spectacular monuments ever built. Construction had begun during the reign of Rameses I and continued under his successor, Seti I. Even in its ruined state, it was still easy to see that its was immense, covering an area of 50,000 square feet – large enough to contain Notre Dame Cathedral with room to spare. Inside were over a hundred columns arranged in rows, each column representing a papyrus stalk. These had once held a roof but that had long ago caved in. The pillars were each over 30 feet in circumferance and rose to heights that dwarfed mere men, standing like a forest of giant tree trunks, their surfaces covered with heiroglyphics. Originally, these had been painted with bright colors, but even without the paint, they were still works of beauty. Though this part of the temple was open to the sky, the columns kept much of the sacred precinct in shadows and their massive size could easily hide a man. Here and there, tourists clustered around them like so many ants, admiring the ancient carvings. Erik scanned the area for Riemenschneider, but saw no one matching his description. He headed south, towards the heart of the temple.

"Effendi, are you looking for the German?"

Erik looked down. His questioner was a scruffy looking boy, perhaps 8 years old. "And who are you?"

"I was told to look for the Frenchman who keeps his face covered. That's you. I'm to tell you that the German is over there." The boy pointed towards the smaller north entrance gateway and then dashed off, his task obviously completed.

The hairs stood on the back of Erik's neck. While the south gateway was almost perfectly preserved, the northern entrance was missing its upper half, including the lintel, and was small only in comparison to the rest of the complex, its walls looming ominously overhead. Huge rocks were strewn about, marking where parts of the building had fallen away in the past. His stomach lurched. This was looking too much like an ambush.

He checked his gun and headed in the direction the boy had pointed, alert for anything suspicious. He exited the hypostyle, but still there was no sign of the German. As he stood by the wall, a large piece of sandstone came crashing down less than two feet from him, alarming the tourists inside and throwing up dust and sand. Had it fallen a couple of feet closer, it would have crushed Erik. He instinctively ducked back into the shadows and looked up. He caught sight of a shadow running along the top of the massive pylon. He tried to follow, running along the base of the pylon while keeping sight of his would-be assassin in sight, but the other person was quicker and had his escape route planned in advance. Within seconds, the mystery person disappeared.

Several of the tourists came rushing over. "Are you all right?" "Were you injured?" "That was devilishly close!"

Erik ignored their concerns and curiosity, and dusted himself off. "Yes, I'm fine," he answered tersely. He took one more look at the roof above. "They don't make ruins like they used to," he said, and walked away. Time to call on Riemenschneider and find out just what the hell was going on.

-0-0-0-

It took Erik little more than twenty minutes to ride to Riemenschneider's house. He tied César to the hitching post, surprised that one of the servants hadn't greeted him already. This lapse was unlike the German; Riemenschneider was very fastidious about things like etiquette and courtesy. He walked up to the door when he noticed that it was slightly ajar. No one greeted his knock – no servant, and certainly no Riemenschneider.

Erik entered and was greeted by a strange quite. No hum of activity, no servants scurrying about, doing everyday tasks. It was as if the house was empty. He called out to the German.

"Riemenschneider! Where are you?"

There was no answer. He walked down the hall, poking his head into rooms he passed. Still empty. "Ehrhart, where the hell are you?" he called out again. Maybe the German was in his library, absorbed with a book. Erik remembered the way and found the door closed. He knocked. No reply. He turned the knob and slowly entered the room, gun drawn and ready to fire if need be.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw that the room had been ransacked. Drawers had been pulled out of the desk and thrown on the floor, their contents spilling about. Books had been torn from shelves, pages ripped out, and on the floor, lying face down, was Ehrhart Riemenschneider. He rushed over to the prone figure and felt for a pulse, certain he wouldn't find one but wanting to make sure.

Erik took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. He had seen death enough times over his lifetime to recognize that this had probably been a crime of passion. Whoever killed Riemenschneider hadn't come planning to kill him. He looked about the room, wondering if the disarray had been the result of a real effort to find something, or an attempt by the perpetrator to make this look like a robbery.

He looked at the pulpy mess that had once been the back of Riemenschneider's head, and then saw the statue of the goddess Sekhmet, She Who is Powerful, lying on the floor next to the body, her leonine muzzle covered in blood. Erik knew that in his business, the German dealt with many questionable characters. He also knew that the man's reputation had been one of dealing fairly, even with his competition, causing Erik to wonder what had made his killer angry enough to lash out at him with the nearest heavy object. Then he noticed the dead man's fingers. On his right hand, they were crushed and mangled, the same elegantly tapered fingers that had on numerous occasions held a cigarette holder. Carefully, Erik made a quick examination of the body, doing his best to disturb things as little as possible. There were other signs of injury, suggesting that Riemenschneider had been tortured before the _coup de grâce_ had been delivered.

From the condition of the body, it was obvious that Riemenschneider had never made it to Karnak, that he had probably been killed shortly after writing the note. The room was already a mess, and so Erik took his time looking around for clues, hoping to find something -- anything -- that would point to the perpetrators, but nothing jumped out at him. Knowing he'd accomplish nothing more here, Erik decided it was time to leave.

He paused for a moment as he stood by Riemenschneider's body. "_Adieu, mon ami_," Erik said, realizing that he was going to miss sparring with the German in spite of himself. "It's a dangerous business we're in."

-0-0-0-

Back home, everything looked unnaturally normal. Safa was puttering around the house, picking things up and putting them away. Talibah was in the kitchen, cooking. A'aqil was out in the courtyard.

Safa came forward and greeted him. "Welcome back, Master."

Erik looked around. "Where is Mrs. Brackenstall?"

"The sewing lady left an hour ago, and the Sitt said she was going to remain in her room and read. Shall I tell her you are home?"

"No, that's not necessary. I'll tell her myself."

Erik knocked on Elizabeth's door. "It's Erik. May I speak with you a moment?" He was debating what to tell her about today. She needed to know. There was no way of knowing just how this was connected to her husband's death. When she didn't answer, he knocked again. He was beginning to worry. "Elizabeth, it's Erik. Something's happened." But all he got was more silence. He turned the knob and found the door was not locked.

"Elizabeth?"

He stepped inside to find signs of a struggle – an overturned chair, a broken vase on the floor, curtains torn from the window. Evidently, a struggle had taken place, unbeknownst to the rest of the household. Erik's heart pounded with the realization: Elizabeth was gone

-0-0-0-


	27. Dangerous Times

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Chapter 27  
****Dangerous Times**

****

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Danger can only be overcome by more danger.  
_**~ Greek Proverb**

Elizabeth's eyelids fluttered open as consciousness slowly returned. She squeezed them tight, trying to clear her vision, then looked around and found that she was lying on a hard, earthen floor in a small, dark room. Once her vision cleared, she was able to make out that her prison was a cellar of some kind.

Shafts of light filtered in through the cracks around the wooden door, and she was surprised to find that her movements were not hindered. Her hands weren't bound; neither was she tied to anything. She tried to raise her head to get a better view of her accommodations, but the least movement caused somebody inside her head to start pounding with a hammer. That was followed almost immediately by her stomach flip-flopping, and she was thankful she'd had nothing to eat recently. Even more than easing her physical discomforts, however, was the need to calm the panic that threatened to overtake her.

Desperately, she tried to remember what had happened, but her mind was still clouded by the thick, sickeningly sweet drug she'd been forced to inhale. Resting her head on the floor, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to sleep.

-0-0-0-

Erik froze in his tracks, raging anger and disbelief filling him at the sight that greeted him. He berated himself for not anticipating something like this, for allowing Elizabeth to be endangered in his own house. He should have known better and taken precautions. Now, thanks to his lapse in judgment, Danger had entered his house and taken the woman he loved.

_The woman I love_.

It was almost a joke, that it took something like this to force him to face the truth: He loved Elizabeth Brackenstall. He loved her feisty, practical nature, and sensed that underneath there was someone like him, someone searching for love. She'd made it a point never to speak disparagingly of her husband but it was obvious to the astute observer that something was lacking in her marriage.

Damn proprieties and custom! When he got her back—and get her back he would—he would tell her how much he loved her. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope for a man like him, that he could be loved for himself. But all that would come later. Right now, he needed to find Elizabeth and deal with the vermin who had committed this outrage.

He pushed aside all distracting thoughts and entered the room, knowing that he needed a clear head if he were going to solve this dilemma. He entered the room and righted the chair, scanning for any kind of clue.

"Master, what has happened?" Safa was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Focused on his search for evidence that might help him find Elizabeth, he ignored her question. "Stay here, where I can keep an eye on you." He shouted for A'aqil, and then instructed him to gather everyone in the household, making sure they were safe before bolting the doors and locking the windows. He knew this was little better than closing the barn doors after the horses had escaped, but it was better than sitting around and doing nothing at all.

The curtains fluttered in the faint afternoon breeze and Erik noticed that the windows were flung open. A quick look through them showed that to either side, the little flowerbeds Safa took such pains to tend were crushed by heavy footprints.

_In and out this way_.

He climbed out the same way and ran into the street, but it was empty.

Back in the room, he took a closer look, trying to reconstruct what had happened. On the floor was a crumpled piece of cloth. Erik picked it up and sniffed. There was enough of the scent left to tell him that chloroform had been used. He stuffed the cloth in his pocket, his gorge rising at the thought of Elizabeth being subjected to such treatment.

He scrambled back through the window and followed the trail but it quickly disappeared once he reached the street front. Cursing his bad luck, he wished he had a bloodhound. He headed back to the window when A'aqil joined him outside.

"My sister says that Mrs. Brackenstall is gone."

"Kidnapped," Erik replied tersely.

"Are you sure they're gone? What if one of them is still lurking?"

"Whoever they are, they got what they came for. They're long gone. We're going to go over every inch of the property, see if we can't find any sign of who took her and where. Then, I'm going to the police station. I'm going to find that weasel Asmari and wring the truth out of him if it's the last thing I do."

A'aqil nodded towards the outbuildings. "Where's Rashid? I thought he was supposed to watching the house."

Erik dashed over to the stable. "A'aqil! Quick; he's unconscious."

-0-0-0-

"Master, what happened?" Rashid had come around and was gingerly rubbing the knot on the back of his head.

"Are you hurt?" Erik asked.

"Other than my thick head? No."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"I'm not sure. Whoever it was, he snuck up from behind. I noticed that the horses were fidgeting, but before I could turn around to see what had upset them, everything went black."

When he finished his story, A'aqil helped Rashid to his feet and guided him to the kitchen while Erik finished searching. Back inside the kitchen, Talibah tended to the lad, wrapping a bandage around his head while Safa brought a glass of water.

"I don't need this," he said to Talibah, protesting against the bandage. "It's just a bump."

"That's what they all say, just before they fall over…dead," Talibah replied, making an ominous face.

"I don't believe you. You're just trying to frighten me."

"Did it work?"

"No."

The old woman shrugged. "Oh well."

Erik entered the room. "I'm leaving now. I want you all to stay in the house and keep the doors and windows locked."

"Where are you going?" Safa asked.

"To the police station. I'm going to get to the bottom of this."

"You're not going alone, Master," A'aqil said adamantly.

"I appreciate the offer, but I need you here to take care of the women and Rashid."

Rashid balked. "But…Master, you cannot. You have no idea what you are up against."

A'aqil agreed. "The boy's right. You are only one man. Remember the old saying about strength in numbers?"

"I don't say this too often, but my brother is right," Safa added. "The three of us will stay together. We can protect each other."

"I have an idea! We will all go to my mother's house," Rashid chimed in. "My four uncles live next door. Once I tell them what happened, they'll protect us!"

Erik was still not comfortable with the idea but gave in. "Very well, but be careful."

Talibah gave him a look. "Do you really think we would be anything but? Besides, if they wanted to hurt us, they'd have done it when they took the Sitt."

A'aqil hugged Safa and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You take care, you hear? I don't want to have to explain how much I'd miss your nagging."

"You, too," she said, sniffing as she wiped a tear from her eye. "I'll be fine. Now go, and find the Sitt."

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth woke up again, this time her head clearer and no longer throbbing, though her stomach was still a touch unsettled. She had no idea how long she had slept and with no windows, it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night. She made a tentative effort to sit up. Feeling no adverse effects, she scooted over towards a wall and rested her back against it, taking stock of her situation.

A key turning in a lock alerted her that someone was coming. She attempted to stand up, wanting to be ready to bolt from the room, but her rubbery legs would not cooperate and she was forced to make an ungainly flop back onto the floor.

She watched nervously as the door opened, bracing herself to come face to face with her captor, and was surprised when she saw instead an old woman, carrying what smelled like a bowl of aromatic soup.

"Eat," the woman said in Arabic.

Elizabeth spoke in the local dialect, attempting to communicate with the old woman. "Who are you? Why have you brought me here?"

"Eat," was all she would say.

With the fragrant smell of the soup filling the room, all trace of Elizabeth's queasy stomach disappeared and she suddenly felt very hungry. She took a cautious sip of the broth. It tasted normal enough, and besides, she thought, if whoever kidnapped her had wanted her dead, he'd had ample opportunity to do so earlier. Having reasoned that the bowl of soup was just that—a bowl of soup and not something poisoned—she lifted it to her lips and drank the contents, the old woman having conveniently forgotten to bring a spoon.

She'd barely finished when the old woman snatched the bowl from Elizabeth's hands and walked towards the door.

"Wait," Elizabeth called to her. "Where am I? What will happen to me?"

The old woman ignored her pleas and Elizabeth's heart sank as she heard the lock being turned.

-0-0-0-

Erik and A'aqil covered the distance to the police station in double time.

"Let me handle this," Erik said. "You stay here and keep an eye out for anything unusual."

A'aqil slunk into the shadows while Erik strode into the police station. This late in the day, most of the officers were ordinarily making the rounds at the local cafes, where they would be plied with refreshments by merchants eager to be in their good graces. Today, however, it was unusually busy. A crowd of nomads had been brought in for questioning in a recent spate of robberies, and the station bustled with activity. He scanned the faces in the crowd, but Asmari was noticeably missing.

_As expected,_ he thought. _The one time I want to see that slimy bastard, he's gone._ _I have no time for this foolishness. _

He pulled a gold coin from his pocket and held it high for all to see. The din ceased as all eyes focused on Erik. "Who can tell me who broke into my home this afternoon?"

After a momentary silence, the chatter resumed as angry men argued over their internment. Erik shook his head and held up a second coin. A third. He scanned the crowd, and was rewarded with nod from one of the policemen, a desk clerk by the name of Mahmoud.

He watched as Mahmoud stood and yawned, stretching before nonchalantly wandering out the back of the building. After a moment's pause, Erik slipped out the front door and met him 'round the back.

Mahmoud was nervous. He wiped sweaty palms on his jacket as Erik approached.

"You have information?" Erik asked quietly. He saw A'aqil watching them, not close enough to frighten the informer away but close enough to jump in and help if trouble arose.

The policeman nodded, jerking his head quickly up and down.

"I know it's Asmari. You aren't betraying anyone."

"It isn't only Asmari. He's working for a man. He's new in town...something with a Q. Qutaybah, or something like that. Very wealthy man...but a man with shady business dealings. Asmari has boasted more than once of being a guest in his home."

A frown crossed Erik's face.

_Something with a Q…Qutaybah…_

Why did that name sound familiar?

"Where can I find this man? It's vital that I reach him." Erik rolled the gold coins in his hand, walking them along the backs of his fingers in an impressive display of legerdemain. "There's more, if you tell me what I need to know."

Mahmoud sneered. "Keep it. I don't want your money. If you catch Asmari up to no good, give him an extra lick for me. He's on the take. He gives all of us a bad name." He met Erik's eyes, searching for vindication.

"Tell me what you know. You might be helping to save a life."

Mahmoud heaved a sigh of relief. "He's at the corner of Sharia Ahmed Orabi and Salah Ad Din." He touched Erik's sleeve. "Those men…they are bad. Very dangerous. Be careful. _Baraka Allahu fika. _May Allah bless you and protect you_."_

"_Jazaka Allahu Khairan,"_ Erik said, bowing his head to the policeman. "May Allah reward you with good."

-0-0-0-

"Be British," she reminded herself. "Stiff upper lip and what." She searched the cellar for something, anything that might be used as a weapon, but it was bare. She stared at her boots momentarily before plopping down to remove one. Footfalls approached; she hunkered out of sight, behind the door, ready to clobber the next person coming through.

An iron key tumbled the door lock noisily, and the hinges squeaked as the door began to swing open. A man entered, holding an oil lamp high, casting weird shadows in the dank cellar, and approached cautiously, looking in the corners for his quarry, his arm was in a sling.

_Aha!_ she thought, her confidence growing. _He's managed to injure himself. That means he's weak--and it means I have a chance against him. I'll overpower him, and run as though the Furies themselves are after me._

She turned the boot to use the heel to its best advantage. _Wham!_ She brought it down on his head with all her might, shoved him aside, and sprang for the opening—for all the good it did her.

Beyond the door, just out of sight, was a brick wall--a brick wall in the form of a hulking native of the Sudan. His wild hair identified him as a Hadendowa, one of the fiercest of the Dervish warriors who'd fought against colonial forces in the Mahdist revolt. She retreated into the cellar as she took stock of the brute. He carried a British military rifle, no doubt stripped from the body of a fallen soldier, and wore two bandoliers of ammunition strung in an X across his chest. Tucked in the sash around his waist was a _jambiya_, a curved knife with a notoriously sharp edge, and hanging at his side in a leather sheath was the long, thin scimitar favored by the Egyptian conscripts.

"Back, Sitt," he growled in broken English. "You go back, now."

Her resolve withered when she saw his hand fall upon the hilt of his knife. She fell back into the cellar until she could go no further, stopped by the hated Asmari. He pinned her arms against her sides, his fetid breath blowing across her face.

"I could use the chloroform again, but my boss man, he wants to talk to you right away. Behave, and you stay conscious. No shouting, no struggling, no trying to escape. Act up, and who knows what could happen to you while unconscious. You get my meaning?"

She glanced at the big man behind him, and shuddered involuntarily—a telling gesture that Asmari seized upon.

"His name is Twar, like the bull," he said slyly. "He will not be so gentle a man as I am."

The Hadendowa spoke again in his broken English. "I make sure she not escape." He grinned as he approached her, his giant paws fondling a rope with which he tied her wrists numbingly tight. His rough hands were like sandpaper against her skin, and he reeked of grime and filth. Then, he wadded up a dirty rag and advanced on her, preparing to stuff it in her mouth.

"Please! Don't!" she begged. "You'll suffocate me!" But it was useless. Within moments, she was not only bound, but gagged as well. Her heart pounded in terror—but he wasn't finished with her yet.

He pulled an empty grain sack out of the pouch attached to his sash and shook it in front of her face.

She coughed as grain dust filled the air, choking her. She struggled as his intention to put it over her head became clear.

He forced it onto her, effectively blinding her. "There," he smirked. "Much better."

She was half-carried, half-dragged up the steps of the cellar and outside, into the alley behind the house where a donkey cart awaited. Twar lifted her up like a rag doll and forced her to lie on her back, on the floorboards. Asmari hauled himself into the cart and settled down close beside her while Twar took the reins.

Elizabeth squirmed when she felt Asmari's foul hand stroking her arms. She flinched as his fingertips trailed up her shoulders, traced the collar of her blouse and toyed with the row of buttons that held it closed. She jerked her head from side to side, straining to get as far away from him as possible, but it only made him hold her tighter.

"Keep struggling," Asmari whispered to her. "You only make me want you more." And then he laughed—a nasty, ugly sound.

She fought the rising panic as each jolt of the carriage reminded her that she was being carried farther away from Erik, and closer to whatever fate awaited her.

-0-0-0-

Armed to the teeth, Erik and Asmari approached the house Mahmoud had disclosed to them. Darkness had fallen over Luxor, but in spite of the hour, no light spilled from the house and into the street. In fact, the whole area appeared to be deserted, as though the people who lived there had scattered at the first sign of trouble.

"We're too late," A'aqil said quietly. "They've moved her."

Erik shook his head. "Not necessarily. Besides, there may be clues as to where they've taken her."

They made their way to the back of the house, and found that it, too, was dark.

Erik drew his pistol and leveled it at the door. He'd drawn up his leg, preparing to kick down the door, when A'aqil grabbed his arm.

"I've got you covered, Master."

"I'm glad somebody does." The door splintered as Erik kicked his way inside.

Inside, they heard the wailing of a woman, a sound like the keening one hears for the dead. An old woman, far older than Talibah, knelt crumpled on the floor, swaying as she cried.

"We're not going to hurt you, grandmother," Erik said calmly, reassuringly. "Tell us where he is."

"I don't know," she moaned, rocking as if to soothe herself. "He is my son. He is a good boy, a dutiful son. I cannot betray him."

A'aqil pointed to bruises on the woman's lower arms and face. It seemed that someone had struck her, and more than once, judging from the various shades of the bruises. "Her 'dutiful' son?" he whispered.

Erik fought back the fury that threatened to cloud his judgment. He forced himself to speak gently, carefully. Yes. If ever there was a time for The Voice, it was now. "Was there a woman with him?"

The old woman appeared dazed. She blinked wildly with confusion. "No! Yes…I don't know. I gave her some soup. But later…it was dark. I could not see clearly."

"Where were they going?"

Asmari's mother was adamant this time. "I tell you, I don't know." She started weeping again, in that exaggerated way of the East.

"You are a good mother. You are right to be worried about Asmari. The man your son is involved with is extremely dangerous. Two other men are already dead. The woman is in peril and your son could be next. You don't want anything to happen to your son, do you?"

Hearing this, she finally broke down. "_Astaghfiru lillah! _I seek forgiveness! My unworthy dog of a son doesn't confide in me, but I overheard them talking." And after one last attempt to cover up her son's crimes, she told Erik everything he needed to know. "They are at the house of Qutaybah, the big one near the Winter Palace. It's a big house, heavily guarded. You'll find the Englishwoman there." She clawed at Erik's sleeve, pulling him down so that her lips touched his scarf. "Hurry, before it's too late!"

Erik patted her hand in a gesture of sympathy. "Thank you, grandmother. I won't forget your compassion. _Yarhamukah Allah. _May Allah have mercy on you. "

"Is it possible?" A'aqil asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The man her son is involved with is named Qutaybah. Could he be the same Qutaybah you bested five years ago, when you saved my miserable hide?"

Recognition set in. "I _knew _the name sounded familiar, but he was nothing more than a petty Cairo bully."

"A lot can happen in five years, my friend. Look at yourself."

Erik took one last glance at the old woman. "There's nothing more we can learn here. Let's go. We've got a few scores to settle."

-0-0-0-


	28. Qutaybah

Thank you to those of you who have been reading and reviewing, and to those of you who tried to review but couldn't. Your support is always appreciated. And to help celebrate a return to things running right, I thought it would be nice if I posted an extra chapter this week. Besides, Lizzy and I know you're all on pins and needles, worried about what happens next! So here you go. Enjoy! (A word of caution about this chapter -- the bad guys are, well, really bad, 'though I've kept things at a PG-13 level. Just so you know.)

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 28 **

**Qutaybah **

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_One may smile, and smile, and be a villain—_  
**~William Shakespeare, Hamlet**

"Keep struggling," Asmari repeated contemptuously. "I like a woman with spirit." He thrust his hips against her thigh, moving rhythmically as the cart sped away. He made slight, mewling sounds as he worked feverishly against her. Frustrated by the lack of freedom to take her right there in the back of the donkey cart, he cursed under his breath.

"_Shaitaan_," he said angrily, flinging away the sling that had restrained his arm. "You must be some kind of devil, to tempt me so." He dragged his tongue along her throat, savoring the taste of her fear.

The cart jolted as Twar brought them to a halt. Elizabeth's head bounced painfully against the floor as the big man jumped down from the driver's seat, and she lay helpless as his footsteps approached. She trembled as coarse hands caressed her bare foot, stroking her ankle and working their way up her legs. Asmari ignored her struggling and pushed up the fabric of her skirt, pinning her down with the weight of his body while his hands found her undergarments and tugged at them.

"Why do you English have to wear so many clothes?" he said, frustration in his voice.

She tried to scream out against the indignity and outrage, but the gag reduced her cries to little more than frightened whimpers.

The scent of garlic breath permeated even through the grain sack. It was Asmari, laying his face close to hers, warning her to cooperate. "If you tell anyone," he vowed, whispering hoarsely into her hear, "I'll make you suffer."

She froze, steeling herself for the worst, when much to her relief and surprise, Asmari was pulled off her by an unseen savior.

It appeared Twar had other plans.

"The Prophet forbids forcing a woman," the Hadendowa warrior growled in Arabic, dropping Asmari on the ground like a piece of trash. "Is the only way you can get a woman by drugging one and tying her up? You are pathetic. Untie her ankles and be done with it!"

She forced herself to remain still as Asmari loosed the ropes. Then, with her booted foot, she let out with a vicious kick in the hope of making contact with at least one of her abductors, preferably in a tender spot, but her efforts were for naught.

_They were expecting you to try something like this. They can see but you cannot. Save your strength. You may yet have a chance._

Rough hands grasped her upper arms and hauled her out of the wagon. She twisted and squirmed, refusing to go without a fight.

"Stop acting like a little brat," Asmari snapped at her, taking her by shoulders and shaking her violently. "You are only making this more difficult than it has to be. Qutaybah wants to ask you a few questions. Behave yourself, tell him what he wants to know, and everything will be fine. You should relax and enjoy it. When the interview is over, we can resume what we started."

His dry, cackling laugh filled her with dread. She had no doubt that he meant to keep his promise. Tears burned her eyes. She fought them back by envisioning what it would feel like to give Asmari a good knee to the groin, and imagined herself wiping off the smirk she knew was his pig's face by smashing in his nose. If there was one thing she despised, it was being helpless. Refusing to display defeat, she stood erect with head held high but her efforts were in vain.

They walked what felt like a mile, but in reality was perhaps thirty or forty yards. With only one shoe on, she stumbled several times over the flagstones that made up a path, the two men holding her arms all that prevented her from falling. At last, they stopped, and she guessed they had reached the entrance to wherever it was they'd brought her.

"Take off your other shoe, infidel slut," Asmara ordered. "You do not enter a Moslem household with your shoes on."

Twar growled. "You were ready to take her in the back of a donkey cart, and you worry about this? And how is she supposed to take of her shoe, anyway?"

"Never mind," Asmari muttered under his breath. "I'll take care of it myself." He bent down, and when he reached for her foot, Elizabeth took advantage of the situation and kicked again, this time having the satisfaction of landing a solid blow and hearing Asmari fall backwards. Twar's fingers dug harder, bruising her flesh, and she winced.

"Not nice, Sitt," he growled into her ear.

"Spirited lioness," Asmari said as he recovered his balance. He took out his anger by grabbing her ankle and viciously twisting off her shoe. "It will be a pleasure to tame you."

She stumbled over the threshold and heard the door close behind her. Finally, the sack was pulled from her head and the foul gag removed. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light, and gulped in deep mouthfuls of air but was given little time to catch her breath.

"Now, you may scream all you want," Twar said menacingly. "In here, no one cares."

She gave him an icy glare and kept her mouth closed instead.

With a quick glance, she took in her situation. The large foyer and hall told her that she'd been brought to a well-appointed house. The furnishings suggested that it could have been the respectable dwelling of any well-to-do man, but looks were deceiving—the people who were holding her captive were anything but respectable. No doubt, this was the mysterious Qutaybah's house.

With her wrists still secured behind her back, Elizabeth was propelled forward and directed to a room off the main hall. A final push sent her inside, the door closing behing her with a sound of finality. It was as if she'd been shut into a tomb while still alive, her heart fluttering at the snick of a deadbolt sliding into place. The room felt decidedly cold, but had less to do with the room's temperature than with the dread that gripped her.

She tried to calm herself by concentrating on her surroundings. The room was a study, very much European in style with wood-paneled walls covered by bookshelves and cabinets filled with leather-bound volumes and a scattering of antiques. In front of her was a large walnut desk, and sitting behind a desk was a beefy man. His face bore Egyptian features but he was dressed in the European fashion. He was big, but not paunchy like Asmari, with dark hair and trim moustache, and exuded a brute strength. He smiled a flashy, toothy smile, but it did not reach his eyes, which remained fixed on her with a hard, flinty stare. No doubt but that this was the man who gave the orders around here.

"Untie the lady's hands," her mysterious host ordered Twar. "And bring her a chair so that she might sit down. She looks as though she could use a bit of a rest." His voice was soft, almost solicitous.

Twar pulled his knife from his sash and cut through the ropes around her wrists. Freed at last from her bonds, she rubbed her arms and wrists, trying to massage cramped and sore muscles and restore circulation, reluctantly accepting the hospitality of the wingback chair as she struggled to marshal her wits.

Her host spoke again. "I'm afraid that in their enthusiasm to do my bidding, my associates were overly zealous." He glared angrily at Asmari and Elizabeth turned her head slightly.

She saw her nemesis withdraw meekly into the corner, while Twar took his place at the door, guarding it. The motion was so automatic that Elizabeth was sure this was his usual occupation.

She turned her attention back to her inquisitor and followed him with her eyes as he rose from his chair and walked over to the cupboard, bringing with him a carafe and two glasses. He filled one of the glasses with the liquid and offered it to Elizabeth.

She hesitated. Her mouth was parched but she distrusted the man and stared at the glass. "This is not a Moslem household," she said at last.

The Egyptian appeared amused, letting out a short, derisive laugh. "Madame, you should have known that the moment you were taken from your home. Or, should I say, from the gallant Monsieur Rien's home? Besides, what difference does it make? The wine is still good. Now, drink it. There's no need to be difficult. You must be thirsty and I assure you it is nothing more than a perfectly good Egyptian wine, dry like the desert but with a subtle, sweet bitterness."

To prove his point, he poured himself a glass and drank.

Elizabeth gave in and accepted the offer, feeling the need to fortify herself for whatever ordeal was ahead of her. Slowly, she drank the contents of the glass. No need to addle her wits. She twirled the stem of the empty glass between her fingers and considered the possibility of using it as a weapon. If she struck the edge of the desk with the glass, she could turn it into sharp-bladed implement.

Her host must have read her mind. "You may return that to me," he said, holding out his hand.

Reluctantly, she handed over the glass.

"My apologies for our having this conversation under such unfortunate circumstances," he went on, continuing to play the role of the gracious host to the hilt. "Sadly, this is your late husband's fault."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said angrily. "In fact, I don't even know who you are."

"How thoughtless of me to forget my manners like this. Allow me to introduce myself; I am Qutaybah, a dealer in antiquities, recently arrived from Cairo. Business has been booming, as they say, and I have recently expanded my field of operations. As for why you are here? For that, you may thank your husband."

"What do you know about Mr. Brackenstall?" she demanded, doing her best to keep that stiff upper lip her father used to tease her about. The wine had warmed and invigorated her, and she found herself wishing she could have another glass.

_Impractical thoughts like this occur under stress_, she reminded herself.

Qutaybah saw her eyeing the carafe. "You would like another?"

She considered accepting his offer and imagined the pleasure of throwing the wine in his face. If she were lucky, some would get in his eyes. At the very least, she would have the satisfaction of causing some discomfort of her own. Then she remembered Asmari and Twar in the room with them.

_Stop being foolish. You need to keep your wits about you. Don't provoke something you can't finish._

"No," she said. She paused before asking, "You didn't answer my question. What do you know about my husband?"

"He took something from me." He held up a hand to stop her protests. "Don't bother to deny it! I know it is so."

"My husband was not the kind of man to stoop to such things," she said, reluctantly admitting to herself that she had come to suspect that Leo might have done this very thing.

"Tsk, tsk, my dear lady. It is a fact that Mr. Brackenstall absconded with a map that is mine. I want it back"

She shook her head. "You might have come to my house like a civilized man and asked me outright instead of engaging in these shenanigans. I could have told you then exactly what I going to tell you now—that I know nothing about any map."

Qutaybah sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Ah, but am I to believe you? You see, it is a very special map. It shows the location of a royal tomb, that of the Pharaoh Tut-Ankh-Aten, somewhere in the hills near Amarna. It is a very old map. Very secret. I stole it from a German fellow who, I am relieved to say, will trouble us no more. But never mind. You need not concern yourself with where I got it…or how."

Elizabeth barked out a laugh. "Then you are as big a fool as Leo was. There was no Pharaoh Tut-Ankh-Aten, at least not for very long. Shortly after he ascended to the throne, he changed his name to Tut-ankh-amen. Wherever he is buried, it's not at Amarna but in the Valley of the Kings. If you want to find the tomb of Tut-ankh-amen, go across the river!"

_But why would Leo have believed such nonsense? He was familiar enough with Eighteenth Dynasty history to have known that Tut-ankh-amen was buried here…yet he willingly went with these two to Amarna._

And that was when it occurred to Elizabeth that what Leo had done was lead Qutaybah and Twar on a wild goose chase…and away from her. She smiled sadly; her husband, the forgetful man who more often than not had taken her for granted, had been thinking of her all along.

_He must have discovered that he was dealing with fire and did his best to draw it away from me. Forgive me, Leo, for having thought badly of you._

Qutaybah scowled. "You lie."

Those words erased the last of the fear she felt and she looked the beast squarely in the eye.

_I'll confront this man with his crimes if it's the last thing I ever do. _

She leaned forward in her chair, to emphasize her words. "_You_ were with Leo at Amarna. _You_ went into the desert with him. _You're_ the one who slit his throat."

Qutaybah was not impressed. He shook his head slowly and sighed. "You are very clever to have pieced all this together, although you have at least one small detail wrong—I am not the one who sent Mr. Brackenstall to Paradise. However, your knowledge will not help improve your circumstances. I pride myself in having a great respect for the fairer sex, and had harbored hopes that you and I could part amicably. But now? I'm not so sure I can release you at all."

Asmari piped in, "The tongues of the dead are silent and not troublesome."

Qutaybah looked over at the corner. "Quiet," he snapped. "I will not have the blood of a woman on my hands." His steely gaze came back to rest on Elizabeth. "I'm sure we can find some place to send you so that you are no longer a threat to me and still live out your life."

He eyed her appreciatively, and Elizabeth felt as if he were undressing her in his mind.

"Yes, you are quite comely. I know several desert sheiks who would pay well for you. True, you are not a virgin, but the men I have in mind would be happy to welcome an experienced woman, one who knows how to please a man, into their harems. If you play your cards right, who knows? You can make a good life for yourself. Later, when you get older and your body is not so young and…firm, you might be able to retire comfortably."

"I'd rather die!" she spat.

"Come now, let's not be so melodramatic. You would soon learn your place and, in time, perhaps even come to enjoy it. At least, that's what your husband thought when he originally suggested that we take you instead of him."

"Leo would never have suggested so...so vile a thing!"

Qutaybah gave a snort. "You would be surprised at the offers a man will make, especially when the knife is at his throat."

"You're lying. You're trying to make Leo out to be a bounder, but he was a gentleman!"

"You'll never know, will you? He's dead! And if you don't cooperate, perhaps you will join him."

"I will not be a slave to any man!" she said, both horrified and outraged at what Qutaybah was planning. "You are nothing but contemptible, you and your pretences of being a protector of women. You're nothing but a flesh peddler, planning not only to get me out of the way but make a tidy profit, too."

Qutaybah' laugh was dry and harsh. "What is wrong with taking a practical approach to these things? And besides, no one is suggesting that you will be a slave. You will be a concubine. That is much better than being a slave."

A knock on the door broke off their conversation. Twar slid the deadbolt aside and stepped out. There was a quick exchange in hushed voices and then he returned. "Master, the servants say that there is a prowler on the grounds."

Qutaybah rose and went to the door. He said something rapidly in Arabic to Twar and stepped into the hallway.

The news perked up Elizabeth's flagging spirits. Could the prowler be Erik? Had he been able to track her down and now was here to rescue her? No matter that she had no idea how he could have found her, she knew she must not give in to desperation.

She turned to Twar. He had protected her earlier from Asmari's advances, if only in a roundabout way. Perhaps he could be persuaded to help her again.

She rose from her chair and walked over towards the giant of a man. "Why do you do his bidding?" she asked. She kept her voice soft, her eyes down and her expression demure. "You seem like a...nice man, a reasonable man."

The Hadendowa grinned, showing off his bad teeth. "You are mistaken, Sitt. I am a very bad man. The boss is right—he did not kill your husband. _I_ killed the English dog." He fingered his knife lovingly.

"But…but you wouldn't harm a woman. As you said, the Prophet forbids it."

The man shrugged indifferently. "You are infidel. Your life means nothing. How do you know I didn't want Asmari to take you because I want you first?"

Dejected, she walked back over to the chair and sat down. Asmari stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of her. He put his hands on her possessively, and pulled her to her feet. She shuddered at his touch.

"You needn't worry, Elizabeth," he said, his rancid breath blowing across her cheek. "You are not a desert flower. You would wilt and die out there. I shall buy you from Qutaybah."

With one hand, he pulled her closer while with the other, he ripped open the bodice of her blouse and fondled her breast. She pushed back and tried to back away, but he was stronger and her struggles only emboldened him. With one hand behind her head, he grabbed a handful of hair and brought her face to his. He pressed his lips against her and, tilting her head back, kissed her, raping her mouth with his tongue.

Her stomach roiled and she nearly retched. She twisted, trying to work her way out of his vulgar embrace. At last, his grip loosened enough to allow her to step back. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, wanting desperately to get rid of the sour taste that lingered.

"Get…away…from me," she managed to say, as she clutched at her blouse and pulled it closed.

"Forget about desert sheiks," he said, grabbing her again and forcing another kiss on her. "You will be mine. I've watched you for weeks while that worthless piece of shit you called your husband tagged along behind you. When he disappeared and you came to me, I thought I might have a chance. But you had to bring that Frenchman with you." He forced her back against the wall, all the while continuing his litany of how long he had watched her, longed for her, desired her.

"Just looking at you makes me hard," he said as he rubbed his arousal against her.

"Let me go!" she cried.

Her cry made Twar snap to attention. She held her breath as she watched what happened next.

She saw Qutaybah nod almost imperceptibly to Twar, and then saw the desert warrior pull out his knife. In a few quick steps, he came up behind Asmari and thrust deep so that the point of the blade protruded from his victim's chest. He gave the blade a vicious twist for good measure before pulling it out.

She gasped as blood dribbled from the corners of Asmari's mouth, and his eyes grew wide in shock and disbelief. His hold on her tightened for a moment as blood filled his lungs. His breathing became ragged and he made gurgling sounds.

Elizabeth screamed as the crimson blossom spread over his chest. His hands continued clutching her, caressing her in an embrace of death as he slid down lifeless at her feet, his vacant eyes staring at her, accusing her, his life's blood covering her.

Shock closed her throat and kept her from screaming again, and she stood still, her hands cold and clammy while her heart galloped.

"Escort our guest to her room and lock her there," Qutaybah said dispassionately. "Make sure she can't escape. Perhaps it would be best if you tied her hands again."

He came over to Elizabeth and gently stroked her cheek. "I'm sorry to have to do this, my dear. You may thank me later for preventing this piece of scum from molesting you. Right now, we appear to have intruders on the property. Once we take care of them, I shall _attend_ to you personally."

Qutaybah turned to Twar. "And when you've finished with her, come back and take out the trash."

-0-0-0-


	29. Into the Lion's Den

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 29  
Into the Lion's Den**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

"_Come not between the dragon and his wrath."_  
~William Shakespeare, King Lear

When they left Asmari's house, it was already well past sunset. Most residents were in for the evening, leaving the streets empty and easy to navigate. The noxious smells of offal and urine mixed with the aroma of suppers being cooked as they passed through the poorer part of town. As they headed towards Erik's house, the smells of the inner city gave way to the fragrance of perfumed gardens.

A'aqil had expected them to immediately head for Qutaybah's place. Instead, they were returning home, which made no sense to him.

"I don't understand, Master. Shouldn't we be going to the police instead?"

"We have no time for the police to come to a decision. You know how they are. First, they'll debate as to whether a crime has actually taken place. They'll speculate that Elizabeth went of her own accord, perhaps even allege that since her husband abandoned her, she must be a wanton woman. They might even try to hold us for questioning in her disappearance. Also, we have no idea if Asmari is the only one on the take. No, we can't risk it. The delay might cost us her…might cost us dearly."

A'aqil nodded thoughtfully. "When you put it that way, it suppose it makes sense."

"Thank you," Erik replied, leaving A'aqil wondering whether or not he'd just been insulted.

They turned off the main street and onto the side street where the shop was located. They dismounted and tethered the horses by the front gate. The place was as they'd left it – empty – and they slipped in quickly.

"Wear dark colors," Erik instructed, and headed into his bedroom. When he came out, he was dressed in black from head to toe – from the turban that sat atop his head to the soft Moroccan boots that allowed him to tread softly. A'aqil, in turn, had attired himself in deep shades of midnight blues and darkest browns.

"We make a good looking pair," the servant said. "Like two ruffians looking for trouble."

"Isn't that what we are?" Erik asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The two of them headed into the study. There, Erik unlocked a standing cabinet. Inside were weapons that could be easily carried – knives and guns. Each man tucked a blade and a pistol into his sash, and shoved extra ammunition into his pockets.

"Anything else?" asked A'aqil.

Erik pointed towards the kitchen. "Yes. Down in the cellar."

-0-0-0-

"Master Erik, I can't believe you've had such an arsenal at the house all this time and I never knew it." A'aqil was carefully placing some Roman candles and firecrackers into a satchel. "And are you certain we will need these?" He pointed to several sticks of dynamite tucked safely into a storage crate. "What are you expecting, the entire Mahdi army?"

"Things haven't always been peaceful in this part of the world," said Erik. "It's only been…what, a year since General Gordon was killed down at Khartoum."

"But that is in the Sudan, Master. Have you been worried that the unrest would spread up here?"

"One never knows."

A'aqil looked around the cellar. There were several crates, the contents of which he decided he was better off not knowing. "You have enough equipment to arm a small insurrection."

Erik gave him a look. "Less talk and more attention to the task at hand. We don't need any accidents."

A'aqil grimaced. "I thought dynamite is stable, unlike nitroglycerine."

"Usually."

"Only…usually?"

Erik cracked a grin. "What can I say, my friend? There are no guarantees in life."

A'aqil let out a snort. "Thanks."

"Just be careful. I'd hate to have to break in a new servant, and I'm pretty sure Safa would be upset as well if I let something happen to you."

That got a small laugh from the Nubian. "Then again, she might thank you."

That Erik had a collection of weapons – mostly bladed implements – had never been a secret. These were the ones that were hung on a wall in the house and were primarily for decorative purposes, but what was down in the cellar was obviously meant for use in a crisis. "Where ever did you learn about such things as this, Master?" he asked, still amazed at the cache his master had accumulated.

"Here and there. I wandered the continent for years, and was once employed by the Shah-in-shah. I was the court magician."

"And this is how you made people disappear, by throwing sticks of dynamite at them?"

Erik chuckled. "You could say that."

Carefully, they placed several sticks of the explosive in a second satchel, protecting them as best they could. They were mounting their horses when A'aqil turned to Erik.

"Only two horses? Oh, I see. Mrs. Brackenstall will ride with you."

"Perhaps a bit uncomfortable, but necessary. Bringing along a third horse would be more trouble than it would be worth."

A'aqil hesitated before proceeding. "You care for her, don't you? A lot, I mean."

Erik paused. "Is it so obvious?"

"Not to a blind man."

"You're right. I do care for her. She's…unique. God forgive me, but yes – I love her."

"Why do you say 'God forgive you'? Is it so wrong to love Mrs. Brackenstall? She is a good woman. Any man would be blessed to have a wife such as her."

"A woman like Mrs. Brackenstall deserves better, that's all."

"If you say so," replied A'aqil, not believing Erik for a moment.

With their weapons and their stock of explosives, they headed towards the house of Qutaybah, prepared to beard the lion in his den.

-0-0-0-

The two men dismounted more than a block from the house. They tied the horses, then made the rest of the way down the palm-tree lined street on foot, sticking to the shadows, alert for any movement.

The house was bigger than average with expansive, well-kept grounds. Lights showed through curtained windows, and occasionally a silhouetted figure could be seen scurrying about. The building was one story high, which was good. That meant they would not have to resort to scaling walls to reach second story rooms, if need be. There was another problem, however, in the form of a ten-foot tall brick fence that surrounded the vast grounds, with only one entrance – a gate where a pair of rather formidable looking men, both armed with rifles, stood on guard.

Using hand gestures rather than words to communicate, Erik and A'aqil made their way around the perimeter of the property, reconnoitering the situation in order to determine the best strategy. At one point, Erik grabbed A'aqil by the shoulder and pointed to a window. Through the translucent curtains, they could see a woman being led into a room by a tall, heavily built man.

It was Elizabeth.

They watched as the man unceremoniously shoved her into the room. Her captor pushed her forward and the two disappeared from their line of sight. When the man reappeared, he was alone. He headed for the door and then the lights went out.

_Be brave, Elizabeth,_ Erik thought. _I'm coming for you._

-0-0-0-

She lay on her side. Her hands were numb and her shoulders felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets, while the ropes around her ankles bit sharply into her flesh. Her range of motion was limited, and when she tried to move, waves of agony shot through her body. Behind her was a window.

She didn't know why she remembered something as inconsequential as a window, but found herself thankful that when Twar had forced her onto the cot, it was with her back to it. She didn't want to see it beckoning to her, taunting her, offering her freedom, not when she was like this – trussed up like a lamb to the slaughter. She began to tremble uncontrollably. How could something like this have happened? What had she done wrong? Tears filled her eyes and her vision blurred, but she refused to cry.

Was it only this morning that she'd been looking over fabrics, discussing the latest fashions? Choosing mourning clothes wasn't the cheeriest of activities, but with Mme Chrétien and Safa, the task had actually been pleasant. It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed the company of other women.

They'd made a morning of it, taking pleasure in tea and biscuits as they talked about "female things," those mysterious topics never spoken of in front of men – husbands (Mme Chrétien, it turned out, was also a widow but though she missed her late husband, she was enjoying her "new life" as she called it) and children (Mme Chrétien had a passel of them, all grown up and with children of their own) and weddings (Mme Chrétien admitted that she always cried at them).

Later, with Madame having returned to her shop to begin making dresses and Safa having excused herself to see to household tasks, Elizabeth had decided to stay in her room and read. The memoirs of the French composer Hector Berlioz looked intriguing, and soon she had lost herself in the story of the composer's fascinating life. She had been so caught up in the book that she hadn't realized someone else was in the room until hands had seized her from behind and forced a cloth, heavy with a sweet, sickly scent, over her face.

From that point on, her life had turned into a nightmare. She tried to blot out the memories of all that had happened since she'd woken up and forced herself to think of pleasant things – her doting father, spring in the Cotswolds, Christmas with her aunts – anything but what she was currently experiencing. Regardless, though, of how hard she tried to blot the memories out, the taste of Asmari's mouth on hers, the skin-crawling sensation of his hands as they had touched, groped and pawed her would not leave. She closed her eyes and his glazed, dead eyes stared at her.

_You mustn't give in to despair. _

Why not? No one knew where she was. How could they? And even if the police or Erik eventually discovered what had happened, by then she would be long gone, as she had no doubts that Qutaybah had not been making an idle threat when he'd said he would sell her to the highest bidder.

_You're alive. No matter what has happened, you're alive – and as long as you're alive, there is hope. _

She lay silently on the cot, her emotions fluctuating between hope and despair. At last, the tears she had been fighting back broke loose and cascaded down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip, trying to choke back the sobs, and gave in to the hopelessness.

-0-0-0-

The commotion outside brought her out of her gloom. If the situation weren't so dire, she would almost have thought it amusing to hear people shooting off firecrackers down the street. At least someone was having a pleasant time of it tonight, she thought ironically. Then there were distant shouts in Arabic, something about prowlers seen lurking in the street. The firecrackers had the household upset. Footsteps scuttled down the hall as servants hurried about. Whatever was going on, it had the household on alert.

Outside her window, she heard noises. They weren't loud, more like someone scrambling quietly up the wall. It couldn't be Asmari sneaking back to her; he was dead, and good riddance, too. Was it Twar or Qutaybah? No, that wouldn't make sense. They'd just walk in the door. She swallowed hard.

What more could possibly happen?

She heard the window slide open and she froze. Someone was climbing in. Her first instinct was to scream, but what good would that do? The only ones who would answer her cries would be her captors. No, better to remain silent and let whatever was going to happen…happen.

She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer.

For once, she was glad that the room was dark. Whoever was with her wouldn't be able to see her face, wouldn't be able to see that she was terrified and crying. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she felt someone approach from behind her. Her senses told her that it was a man. She gasped and a hand reached across and covered her mouth. Not harshly, but enough to let her know she must keep quiet.

"Elizabeth," a voice whispered. It was Erik!

Her heart leapt and she nodded to let him know that she understood.

He took his hand away and quickly untied her wrists and ankles. "Are you hurt?" he asked as he worked, keeping his voice low.

"No," she answered, likewise keeping her voice down.

Freed from her bonds, she let him help her to her feet. She turned to face him and knew that even in the faint light coming through the window, Erik could see the dried blood, her torn blouse, the bruises from being tossed about.

_He looks like an avenging angel_, she thought, taking in his appearance. From the turban on his head to the scarf that covered the lower half of his face, from his tunic and baggy pants to his boots, he was dressed in black, but it was his eyes that caught her attention. They flashed angrily – not at her, but at the idea that someone had hurt her.

"The blood is Asmari's," she said quickly, knowing what must be going through his mind.

"Did he…did he touch you?" he asked, afraid to say what he was really thinking.

"No, he didn't violate me," she answered, surprised at how calm she felt. "He didn't have time to finish what he started, but not for lack of wanting." She looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"Where is he now?"

"Dead," was all she said, suddenly uncomfortable with saying more on the subject.

"Good," he said, silently relieved but not bothering to ask how it happened. There would be time for that later. "One less problem for me to take care of."

"But Asmari was not the only one here. There are two others and they are very much alive."

Erik made a grim face and gave their surroundings a quick visual inspection. "Then I suggest we move quickly." Silently, he crossed the room and bolted the door from the inside. He spied an old straight back chair and shoved it under the knob for good measure.

"We?" asked Elizabeth.

"A'aqil is with me."

She almost laughed, partly from a release of tension and partly from sheer joy.

"We're going out the window," he said. "Here, take this." He handed her his pistol. "Just in case. You said you knew how to fire one of these?"

"Yes." She allowed herself to finally smile. The weight of the gun felt good in her hands.

They went over to the window and Erik started to give her a boost up. "A'aqil is below."

Just then the doorknob turned. When it wouldn't open, the person on the other side roared with anger. It was Twar.

"Go, Elizabeth!" Erik shouted and saw her hesitate ever so briefly. "Now! Get as far away as possible. I'll take care of this and catch up with you."

"But…Erik! I can't leave you! He'll kill you!"

"Leave me!" He pushed her through the window while Twar threw all his weight against the door. The hinges creaked as the wood began to splinter. Another blow like that, and the door would give way.

She reached out and put her hand to his cheek. "Be careful! I...can't lose you, too."

There was a thunderous crash and door flew off its hinges. Twar barged into the room. Erik grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up to the window so that she could scramble out.

"Go, Elizabeth! Quickly!"

She gave him the briefest of looks. "I …," she started to say, but there wasn't time to finish the sentence. Instead, with Erik's help, she jumped out of the window and down to A'aqil's waiting arms – and freedom.

"I love you!" Erik said softly, then he turned to face Twar.

-0-0-0-


	30. See You in Hell

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Chapter 30  
****See You in Hell**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!  
_**Shakespeare, **_**Hamlet**_

The window was big enough for a person to wriggle through but not much more. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth made her plunge for freedom and found arms reaching up to meet her, hands easing her to the ground.

"Come, Sitt! Quickly!"

It was A'aqil, and never in her life had she been happier to see Erik's sardonic servant than she was now.

He pointed towards the rear of the house. "That's where we're going," he said as he motioned her into the shadows.

She hesitated. "But…Erik. He's in there, with Twar. We must wait for him."

A'aqil grabbed her arm with gentle urgency. "I don't know who this Twar is," he said, keeping his voice low, "but I have my orders and they are to get you away from this place -- now. Master Erik and I have already discussed the possibility that we would have to separate and have already arranged to meet later."

"Why can't we use the gate?"

He pointed at two men standing by the opening, both heavily armed and conspicuously alert for trouble.

"That's what is wrong, but don't worry. I've got something to keep them busy should we need it." He grinned and patted the leather bag slung over his shoulder. "I'd rather not draw any more attention than necessary, though. We used firecrackers once as a distraction. I'm not sure that would work a second time."

-0-0-0-

The door groaned and splintered with a deafening crash beneath the broad shoulder of Twar. His hulking mass filled the jamb, his form silhouetted by the dim light from the hallway. He had to stoop to get through the doorway and moved clumsily over the debris at his feet. He kicked the broken chair aside and advanced on his prey. When he saw Erik standing near the window, he reached for the rifle he always carried over his shoulder, staring with steely eyes, devoid of light and human kindness.

Erik studied his opponent. No longer was he playing the part of a mild-mannered shopkeeper; the Angel of Death had returned, and he calculated his odds against Twar with the same dispassionate curiosity he would use to evaluate the worth of a relic. There was no doubt that this encounter would end with one of them dead, and as he took stock of the henchman, Erik resolved not to be that man. A'aqil could handle the two guards remaining outside, but Elizabeth's life was at stake. If Twar got past him, the chances of her escape diminished -- and that was unthinkable.

His strapping opponent was easily five or six or inches taller than himself, a rare occurrence. In fact, he'd never seen a brute this size before. Twar had him outmatched in both size and weight, and judging from the dilation of his pupils and the redness of his eyes, the giant had indulged in the infamous plant called _khat_, a stimulant favored by native warriors.

Erik considered the two sticks of dynamite in the pouch he was carrying. The problem could be quickly solved if he lit a stick and tossed it at Twar, but within the small confines of the room, he'd probably end up getting killed in the process as well. That wouldn't do.

He glanced at the window. It had barely been large enough for him to squeeze through the first time, but with a man like Twar on his heels? Even diving head first, he'd never make it through quickly enough. With few options left to choose from, Erik decided on a different approach. At the least, it would buy a little more time for Elizabeth and A'aqil to get away. Slowly, he slid the pouch onto the windowsill and out of harm's way. If this was to end up in hand-to-hand combat, he didn't need to accidentally blow himself to smithereens.

"This doesn't have to end badly for either of us," he said in Arabic, knowing full well Twar would never agree. "We can solve this like adults. Lay down your weapons, and we'll pretend this never happened. I am a wealthy man. I can make it worth your while. Let us go and I'll give you double whatever Qutaybah is paying you."

The cutthroat snorted in disbelief. "My life would be worthless, and you know it," he replied scathingly, using a dialect Erik had picked up from A'aqil. "Qutaybah would have his men hunt me down and kill every member of my clan. They'd burn my village, loot the cattle and take the women."

"Then you leave me no choice but to kill you," Erik warned.

Twar laughed mindlessly, a grim and chilling sound. "You and who else, dog?" he said, glaring threateningly. He shifted his rifle from the sling on his shoulder to aim it from the hip, his finger poised on the trigger. With the gun trained on Erik, the lout swaggered as he boasted, "I was there when we killed the English general, the one they called Gordon. We hacked him to pieces and sent his head to Muhammad Ahmed Al Mahdi, who had it stuck on the branch of a tree where all who passed it could look in disdain. Children threw stones at it, and the hawks of the desert swept 'round and circled above. I shall enjoy doing the same to you, infidel."

-0-0-0-

"This way." A'aqil pointed towards the back of the house, where, like ghostly giants, there rose out of nowhere a small forest of date palms and bushes – oleander, by the looks of them. After the horrors she'd been though this evening, the idea of this lush oasis practically outside her prison room was almost comical and nearly caused her to laugh.

In the distance, dogs brayed. A'aqil urged Elizabeth forward. "I don't want to wait and see if those are Qutaybah's hounds or someone else's."

"But…"

"No buts. I don't like it any more than you do, but my orders are to get you to safety first – _then _go back, if need be. Master Erik is a clever man. He'll be able to take care of this person Twar and we'll find him joining us any minute now. In the meantime, let's get going." He paused. "By the way, who is Twar?"

"One of Qutaybah's henchmen. He's…big." She looked back at the house one last time, forcing herself to ignore what must have been going on inside.

_God be with you, Erik. _

"Lead the way," she said.

They crept along under cover of the shadows of the foliage, ducking the fruit bats that screeched as they flew through the grove in search of a tasty morsel.

"Ugh!" groaned A'aqil, swatting at one that crashed into the nearby bushes. "Ugly creatures!"

They continued until they found themselves deep in the heart of the garden. In the dark blue of midnight, weak light from the crescent moon filtered down through the leafy canopy like spectral fingers, while an artificial waterway snaked through the grounds like a silver serpent. .

"Where do we go from here?" Elizabeth asked.

"There." A'aqil directed her eyes to the fence. It was on the far side of the garden, still a good distance from their present position.

Senses heightened, they crouched as they made their way from tree to tree, always staying in the shadows. The garden was laid out in a maze-like design, and it was easy to keep oneself hidden.

"Be careful," A'aqil said, pulling Elizabeth away from a large, eight-foot tall bush. "It's oleander. Very poisonous. Even a scratch can cause problems."

Elizabeth amazed herself with reserves of energy she was able to draw upon. She remained close to A'aqil, trusting him implicitly.

Just then, a shadowy figure darted out from behind a tree trunk about twenty feet away them. A shot rang out, the bullet barely missing them and burying itself in the tree trunk behind them. A few inches to the left and it would have hit A'aqil square in the head.

-0-0-0-

In a blur of motion, Erik threw the Punjab lasso that had been hidden up his left sleeve and snagged the muzzle of the rifle with it. He jerked to his left using the muscles of his strong side, hoping to catch Twar off guard. Erik nearly pulled the rifle out of his hands, but the Hadendowa anticipated this move and held onto the stock. He resisted, pulling the rifle – and Erik with it.

The giant laughed. "The Punjab lasso! I haven't seen anyone use that in years."

Erik stumbled, regained his balance and pulled back with all his might. This time, the rifle flew out of Twar's meaty hands and landed on the floor, skidding underneath the bed that Elizabeth had lain on, well out of reach of both of the men.

Erik crouched low and grasped the hilt of his knife firmly in his left hand. "I'd rather not kill you," he said, as he moved out of Twar's reach.

Twar's laughter rumbled in Erik's ears. "Little man, you are like a fly buzzing in the ear of a bull." He drew his sword from its scabbards and raised it as high as the ceiling would allow, and brought it down with a vicious slash.

Erik moved nimbly to avoid the razor-sharp blade. The scarf over his face was suffocating as his breath came fast and hot. Snatching the coverlet off the bed as he passed by it, he threw it at Twar, hoping to blind him momentarily and gain the advantage; but Twar caught it with his free arm and lunged forward in an attempt to run him through. Erik grabbed the ends of the bedspread and, making two swift circular motions, wrapped it around the _saif_ and pulled it loose from Twar's hand. Disarmed, the henchman charged at Erik like a raging bull.

Erik deftly sidestepped him, forcing him headfirst into the wall. Twar was dazed, but shook it off and lowered his head, ready for more. The Angel spoke softly, soothingly. "This is your last chance, Twar. If the only reason you're doing this is because you're afraid of Qutaybah, I can offer you protection."

"Like you protected the woman?" The giant warrior sneered contemptuously. "The woman, she was ripe for the plucking. She is like a bitch in heat, that one." He licked his lips, implying what he intended to do to her when he got his filthy hands on her again. He closed his eyes. "I can see her now, struggling beneath that pig Asmari. Soon she will be mine for the taking, only I will not be as easy on her as Asmari was."

Twar's overconfidence allowed Erik an opening. He darted close to the big man and slapped him on the jaw with both hands, vibrating them to hit the two nerves that run alongside the mandible. It was a technique known as the death touch, and Erik used it in the past with staggering success, but his victims hadn't been Hadendowa warriors stoked with a drug known to heighten aggression. Twar blinked twice and roared as he charged.

Erik dodged and feinted, landing straight punches and jabs on the giant's face, chest, and ribs, but the man kept coming. The Angel reached around Twar and grabbed his head, forcing it downwards as he brought up his knee, smashing it into his face. The warrior jerked spasmodically as the pain jolted through his body. Erik continued his assault, stomping on Twar's instep with all his weight and, as he bent forward, landed a blindingly painful blow to the kidneys.

Twar put his shoulder into Erik's middle and rammed him into the wall. He used his fists like hammers, pummeling Erik with blows to the head and abdomen that made him see stars.

Erik fought the blackness that followed, reminding himself of what would happen to Elizabeth and the others if Twar survived and decided to go after them for revenge. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and as Twar pushed his shoulder into his opponent's stomach in an effort to knock the wind out of him, Erik raised his hands, flattened his palms and brought them down on Twar's ears with all his might.

The Hadendowa warrior's eardrums ruptured on impact. He fell back, blood streaming down both sides of his neck, grasping at Erik as he went down. He pulled at his adversary's clothes and caught the black scarf that had concealed Erik face until this point. The moment he saw what lay beneath, a look of sheer panic flashed across his face. He scrambled backwards, shaking his head and muttering, "Unclean!" as he tried desperately to put distance between himself and the Frenchman.

Superstition made the brawny man tremble with fear as he stared at Erik's exposed face. There, on the floor next to him, lay the rifle, but dazed and surprised, Twar was oblivious to it.

Erik was transformed upon seeing the terror in warrior's eyes and the absolute dread and horror that was unfolding across his face. For the first time in his life, instead of being ashamed, he was grateful for his loathsome appearance. He mustered his wickedest, evilest, nastiest grin and said boldly, "What, you never saw the Angel of Death before?"

"_Ya Allah!"_ Twar cried. His fingers moved convulsively, seeking purchase, seeking anything he could use as a weapon with which to defend himself – and fell upon the rifle. He jerked it up to fire it, but Erik was too fast for him. He pushed the rifle down, stepping on it, trapping Twar's hand underneath it, and he smiled beatifically as he heard the bones crunch beneath his boot.

"On your knees," he said quietly. He stood in front of the beaten warrior, and glowered down at him.

Twar blinked, confused. "What?"

An odd sense of _sameness_, of familiarity filled Erik. He knew this feeling. It was the way he always felt at the moment of victory. He spoke with determination. "I said, prepare to meet your Maker."

Twar summoned his strength and moved suddenly. Aiming for Erik's throat, he lashed out with his hands.

Erik brought his fist down on the top of Twar's skull, stunning him, making him slump forward slightly. Quickly, reflexively, he brought his fist down on the back of the skull, instantly separating it from the man's spine. Twar's lifeless body fell forward, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Erik stared at the body curiously, remembering other people, other places, other combats and other deaths. It all came back to him as he stood over his vanquished foe. Death. Disaster. Chaos. This is what he was. There was no Erik Rien. There was only the Angel of Death.

"See you in Hell," he said, as he stepped over the body.

He crossed the room quickly, snagging the bag on his way to the window. Firecrackers popping outside alerted him that the night's work was not yet finished. Hastily, he took out a stick of dynamite, lit the fuse and tossed it over Twar's body into the hallway. He smirked with satisfaction at the thought of Qutayba's entire house in ruins.

In a flash, he jumped through the window feet first, and hit the ground running. Moments later, a shot rang out behind the house and he spun to a halt as the realization dawned that Elizabeth might yet be in danger.

"Beth!" he cried, and sped off towards the sound of the shot.

-0-0-0-

A'aqil and Elizabeth hunched down behind an oleander bush, attuned to the night sounds – and the sounds of footsteps.

"Someone is stalking us," whispered A'aqil. He looked inside his pouch. "Damn!"

"What's wrong?"

"All I've got are firecrackers. Erik must have the dynamite."

Elizabeth put her hand on the gun she was carrying. "Then firecrackers will have to do. We can use them to flush out our prey."

A'aqil grinned. "Ah yes. The hunter becomes the hunted. I like that." He reached in and brought out a handful of firecrackers, lit them and tossed them in the direction of their adversary.

Seconds later, there was the pop, pop as the firecrackers exploded and immediately after that, a shadowy figure jumped out from behind a tree. Gunshots rang out. Elizabeth aimed and fired, hissing a curse when she missed.

"We must take advantage of the confusion," A'aqil urged her. "Move away from this place."

They kept low, scurrying away from their would-be assassin. Another shot was fired and A'aqil stumbled to the ground, clutching his left arm and cursing roundly.

"Go! Run!" he yelled to Elizabeth, but she wouldn't leave his side.

She knelt down next to him, trying to assess how badly he was hurt. "I'll not abandon you to these monsters," she said.

"How very touching."

She all but jumped at the sound of _that _voice. It seemed that, during her momentary distraction, they had once again become the prey. She inhaled sharply as she saw who had been pursing them – Qutaybah – and shuddered as she found herself looking down the barrel of his revolver.

"When I heard the firecrackers the first time, I suspected someone was trying to rescue you. Now, I want you to put that down," he said, pointing at her pistol. "Slowly. I'm a very nervous person."

She gritted her teeth and complied, placing the weapon on the ground in front of her.

"No. Closer to me." When she obeyed, he kicked the gun aside with his foot.

"You know, you are a lot of trouble, Mrs. Brackenstall," the Egyptian said, grinning as he kept his gun trained on her. "First, your husband causes me no end of problems. Then, I am forced to deal with Rien who, by the way, had his hands full with Twar last I looked." He saw the look of horror on her face at that. "Don't worry, dear lady. Twar will make quick work of Monsieur Rien. And because of you, I had to do away with my best informant within the police department." He chuckled nastily. "Apparently, you have some sort of magnetic appeal to the wrong kind of men."

Then he looked down at A'aqil. His eyes squinted as he tried to figure out why the Nubian looked familiar. Then it came to him.

"You!" he said with a loud laugh. "So, you have graduated from urinating in my beer bottles to…what? Being the lackey of that Frenchman, Rien?" He used the barrel of his pistol as an extension of his finger and pointed at Elizabeth. "Are you her designated babysitter?"

A'aqil remained silent, marshalling his strength, thankful that the bullet had missed the bone. Now, he thought sardonically, all he had to worry about was bleeding to death and the possibility of infection. That is, if they made it through the night alive.

"He's not very good at his job, is he?" said Qutaybah, not expecting an answer as he leered at her. "_You_ are ungrateful. I thought to do you a favor, but you've forced my hand. I shall miss you, but a man must do what a man must do. _Au revoir, Madame_."

He pulled back the hammer, but just as he was about to pull the trigger, a loud explosion rocked them, its force sending them all sprawling to the ground. The gun flew out of Qutaybah's hand. He scrambled to his knees and groped in the dark for the handgun, but it was tantalizingly out of his reach.

Elizabeth quickly jumped to her feet, grabbing her gun. She allowed herself a small laugh of victory. The tables had turned once again, it seemed. Now it was Qutaybah's turn to be on the receiving end. She pointed her gun at the man.

"Now, you can do one of two things," she said. "You can allow us to leave, or I can shoot you – here and now."

Qutaybah sneered. "You haven't got the nerve."

"Try me."

A'aqil held his breath, unable to do much more than watch with dismay.

Qutaybah, with a sudden move, pushed Elizabeth aside and lunged for his gun. He rolled over and pointed it in her direction. But her reflexes were every bit as quick as his, and before Qutaybah could pull the trigger, she pulled hers. The last thing he saw was the look of cold vengeance in her eyes.

She stood motionless as she stared down at Qutaybah's lifeless body.

"You did what you had to do," said A'aqil.

She nodded sadly. "Yes, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

There were more noises. Someone was running in their direction. She turned, ready to shoot again.

"Don't!"

It was Erik. Elizabeth let out the breath she'd been holding.

"I heard the gunfire," he said, rushing to her side. He looked down, first at the lifeless Qutaybah, and then at his servant. "Are the two of you all right?"

"A'aqil's arm is injured, but I don't think it's too serious.

Erik quickly took in the scene and surmised what has happened. He had a thousand questions, but there would be time enough for them later. The dynamite had ignited the flammable materials in the house, and now flames were engulfing the building, casting an eerie light on their garden of terrors.

Neighbors were running into the street, shouting, the explosion no doubt getting more than one person out of bed. Household servants and bodyguards were rushing hither and thither, panicked by the conflagration.

"Come, Elizabeth." Erik reached for her hand.

She smiled wanly and put her hand in his. It never occurred to her that his face wasn't covered.

A'aqil scrambled up from the ground and tore a makeshift bandage from his tunic, using it to bind his wound. "Nobody's offering _me _a hand," he grumbled, jokingly. "By the way, what took you so long?"

"I was busy." Erik managed a grin for his friend. "I suggest we get the horses and head home. We can discuss the inequalities of your situation later."

"And which exit do you suggest we use?"

Erik looked around. "I've got one more stick of dynamite left. We could blow a hole in the fence here, but I don't think that's necessary. It would bring too many people over here to investigate, and besides, the guards are occupied with trying to contain the fire. We should be able to slip out easily enough through the gate."

In all the commotion, no one noticed three rather disheveled people leave the compound. Down the street, the horses were waiting impatiently. Erik helped Elizabeth up onto his mount and slipped onto the horse behind the saddle, putting his arms securely around her. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she felt safe. She grasped his forearms and held on tight, allowing herself to relax in the warmth of his arms.

Neither of them saw the grin on A'aqil's face as he scampered up onto his horse, and the three of them turned homeward.

-0-0-0-


	31. The Real Treasure of Egypt

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

Chapter 31  
The Real Treasure of Egypt

_It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life.  
__Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.  
_~ Joseph Campbell

_Don't stop. Keep moving. Keep your mind occupied. If you stop what you're doing, you'll start thinking about…about _him, _about how he touched you, about the knife sticking out of his chest, about all those awful things Qutaybah said, about the blood. _

Elizabeth kept her eyes focused on the wound she was tending, while A'aqil fidgeted.

"You don't need to be doing this, Sitt," he said. "You should be resting; you've had a difficult night."

_Difficult? That is surely an understatement! But don't take out your feelings on A'aqil. The poor man was injured saving your sorry hide, or have you forgotten already?_

"No," she said, forcing her hands not to tremble. "I need to keep moving, to keep doing something. If I don't, I'll start thinking about what happened. I'll start thinking about _him."_

She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her frayed nerves, and picked up a roll of clean linen bandages.

_Stop being a ninny. Of course, you were frightened out of your wits, but nothing happened to you. True, you were held against your will by rather nasty scum, but other than some unwelcome groping, you weren't hurt. _

She looked at the dried blood covering the front of her blouse and skirt, and remembered Asmari's dead eyes looking up at her. She grabbed Talibah's fresh, clean kitchen apron and hurriedly tied it in place, covering the soiled fabric.

_Stop that! He was a vile, evil man. He's dead, and I'm not sorry. Don't go berating yourself. Asmari was wicked, just like Qutaybah and Twar. None of them were innocents. They were all responsible for Leo's death. So, chin up and all, the way Father always taught you. You're a Cutteridge; you're made of sterner stuff. _

"Now, quit your fussing and let me finish," she said with false cheer, pretending that stitching up injuries caused by gunshots was a common, everyday event. "It's a superficial wound. You're lucky the bullet only grazed your arm. This could have been worse; you could have had a much more substantial wound, perhaps even a broken bone."

A'aqil eyed the needle apprehensively; watching suspiciously as she held pinched it between her trembling thumb and forefinger.

She inserted the needle again, trying to be gentle, when a hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. She all but jumped out of her skin and jabbed the needle sharply into A'aqil's arm.

"Ouch! Careful, Sitt!"

"Sorry," she said when saw that the hand belonged to Erik, who had finished getting the horses settled for the night. She smiled sheepishly at him, ashamed of her reaction.

Erik looked at her with concern. He'd seen how her body had tensed when he touched her, and he sensed that she was struggling to maintain her composure. He glanced at A'aqil. "Be grateful for her help," he said, hoping to lighten the mood. "Without her, we'd probably be figuring out the best way to amputate your arm."

A'aqil rolled his eyes, catching the silent signal for some much-needed levity. "Very funny, Master. I think the two of you are enjoying this."

He sat patiently as Elizabeth finished tending the wound, then quickly rose up from the chair. "Next?" he said, gesturing to Erik to sit down. He grinned like a jackal. "Now, we'll see how _you_ like being a pincushion."

Erik grimaced. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That cut you've been trying to hide, Master," said A'aqil, pointing to the bloodstain on Erik's tunic. "The one on your left shoulder. It's time to let Mrs. Brackenstall take care of it for you."

Elizabeth looked more closely at Erik. With his dark clothing, she hadn't noticed that he, too, bore evidence of the night's encounter. The sight of it distressed her. "Please," she said. "Let me do this."

"It's nothing," Erik said, shrugging off her concern, suddenly uncomfortable. "It's already stopped bleeding."

"But it could become infected. It will only take a few minutes." she persisted, and Erik relented. "It…it's the least I can do for you," she said. "After all, you saved my life tonight."

"I didn't do it because I was expecting to be rewarded, Beth."

"I know," she whispered, afraid to say more.

He sat down and removed his tunic, sucking his breath in sharply when the fabric stuck to the wound. Carefully, she took a clean cloth and soaped it, then cleaned the wound and the surrounding flesh. She was relieved that it was not a deep cut, that the knife had not penetrated the muscle, but saw that many bruises and scrapes covered his body. In fact, there was evidence of old injuries, testament of hard times in the past written in pale scars and odd discolorations. At times, it was difficult to tell the fresh wounds from those long forgotten.

"Are you injured anywhere else?" she asked, her voice quavering slightly.

"Only a few superficial cuts and bumps. I might be a little sore tomorrow."

She looked at the marks and shuddered at what she saw. _From colliding with Twar's fist_, _he means. Dear Lord! He might have been killed! _She stood, poised with the needle ready, as the implication sank in. He had fought for her, risked his life for her. What if she had lost him – her dearest friend?

"What treatment do you prescribe?" Erik asked, keeping his tone light.

She blinked away a haze of tears. "Suturing," she forced herself to say with grim determination. Taking hold of the needle, she sanitized it as best she could, then threaded it. With her left hand, she pushed the edges of the wound together, while with her right, she prepared to stitch the flesh. "This will sting a bit," she said.

Erik saw her tremble slightly and rested his hand over hers. "You're doing fine, Beth," he said, offering her what reassurance he could. "Take a deep breath, then go ahead and do your worst."

A'aqil waited several minutes, watching to see that all was under control. Satisfied, he made ready to leave. "While the two of you finish cleaning and stitching, I've got a few things to do. Maybe run over to Rashid's house and bring the rest of the household back." He didn't add that among the things he planned on taking care of was going back to Qutaybah's house and make sure there was no evidence left behind that would lead the police back to them, a plan he and Erik had discussed in advance. Once that was taken care of, he would get his sister and the others.

"Perhaps it would be better if we just let them sleep tonight and send for them in the morning," said Erik.

The tall Nubian snickered. "Come now, Master. You know my sister as well as anyone. Do you truly think Safa is sleeping? I don't know about you, but I don't want to be the one telling her we arrived home safely during the night and didn't bother letting her know."

When put that way, Erik could not help but agree.

"I'll take one of the rested horses."

"Before you go," Erik said, "would you do me one more favor?"

A'aqil grinned and shrugged. "You're the one who pays me. What is it you wish?"

"Would you go through the house and light all the lamps? Oh, and check the Sitt's rooms; make sure everything is in order."

A'aqil understood the code; he was to check that the house was secure. The servant made an exaggerated bow and added a courtly flourish. "Your wish is my command," he said, and left the room.

"I'd love to see Safa tonight," Elizabeth said. "With her and old Talibah back in the house, I'll know that everything's back to normal."

-0-0-0-

Soon after she finished stitching up Erik's cut, he suggested that it would do them both good to wash up. She'd grimaced when she saw that she was still wearing bloodstained clothes. Trying to hide that she was still shaken by the night's events, she gratefully accepted Erik's offer to escort her to her rooms. As they walked, she allowed him to take her arm.

At the door, she hesitated before entering. In her mind, she knew all was safe. Hadn't A'aqil already checked? But it was a comfort, nonetheless, to have Erik with her. Part of her wanted him to stay with her, to protect her from the painful memories that were assaulting her mind, but at the same time, she knew she was withdrawing, becoming more distant, and she was helpless to do anything about it. Silently, she nodded her thanks before she made her way into her suite, relieved to find all signs of the afternoon's mishap had been cleared away. In fact, the room looked oddly commonplace and ordinary.

She took a deep breath. _Stop thinking about it_, she told herself, and headed for the bathroom where she turned on the tap. What a pleasant surprise to find that the water was still hot. She hadn't been sure if the boiler would be lit. Not that it would have mattered whether the water was hot or cold. Now that she was here, all she could think about was cleansing away all reminders of her captivity.

While the water was still running, she slipped into her room where she grabbed a caftan and clean undergarments. Back in the bathroom, she locked the door behind her. Quickly, she tore off the clothes she'd been wearing and tossed them into the wastebasket. She never wanted to see them again.

In one of the cabinets, she found some scented oils and soaps, and added them to the water, creating a heady fragrance in the moisture-laden bathroom air, and then stepped into the tub. The water felt deliciously hot, and she lowered herself down into the tub until all that was exposed was her head. She leaned back, resting her neck against the cool porcelain, and closed her eyes, letting the water surround her, purify her, remove the memories of Asmari's touch. She allowed herself to relax, the feel of warm water against her skin wonderful.

_The house is quiet_. _That's fine. It suits my mood. I don't want noises or sounds or any kind…just quiet._

The rush of adrenalin that had been keeping her going was finally wearing off, and fatigue was beginning to settle in its stead. Fearing she would fall asleep where she was, she grabbed the soap and a washcloth and scrubbed her skin till it glowed. Then she took the pins out of her hair, dropping them on the floor beside her, and ducked under water.

Rinsing herself off from top to bottom, she then got out and dried off. There were more scented toiletries in the cabinet, and she found a rose-scented lotion and rubbed it into her body. Next, it was over to the sink to brush her teeth. She wanted to feel clean – inside and out. At last, she was ready to dress, and found the caftan comfortably loose fitting. She looked at herself in the mirror, and combed out her hair, leaving it unconfined.

At last, she felt human again.

-0-0-0-

"You sure you wouldn't rather lie down and get some rest?" Erik asked, meeting her in the main hallway and walking back to the kitchen with her. He flexed his shoulder as they walked, trying to gauge how tender it was going to be in the morning.

She sat down at the table and took a deep breath. "Do I look tired?" she asked, forcing herself to make small talk.

"A little."

She smiled, almost shyly, when she noticed that he, too, had decided on loose clothing and was wearing a dark _galabeya_. It looked good on him. She was also pleased that he had not bothered to cover his face again. Funny, she thought, how, once she'd gotten used to it, she hardly noticed the disfigurement. Instead, it had simply become a part of him, a part of her friend. Her dear, kind, brave friend.

Try though she did, it was still hard to get the dreadful events of the night out of her mind and so she tried to concentrate on pleasant things—the drawing lessons as she and Erik sailed on _The Eye of Horus_, that night on the desert when he'd had taught her how to see with her ears…and her heart, the comfort of his arms as he'd carried her to safety tonight. Anything to make her smile and remind her that there were still good things, and good people, around her.

"How does your shoulder feel?" she asked, trying to keep to safe topics of conversation.

"A little sore, but I think I'll live," he said.

He was pleased to see that she was beginning to get back to normal—at least, outwardly. She'd been through a terrible time of it and although she had reassured him that she had not been hurt in any way other than some jostling around, he was sure that what happened tonight would continue to trouble her for a while. He'd been worried earlier; she'd looked fragile, ready to break. He'd wanted to take her in his arms, but thought better of it. He'd already seen her tense up when he'd touched her shoulder; he didn't want to cause her any more distress.

Off in another room, a clock struck the hour. He watched as she cocked her head to one side as she listened intently and let out a sigh.

"Midnight," he said.

She nodded. "I suppose I should go to bed, but I don't want to be alone. Not yet. After the others return, I'll feel better."

"It might be a while. How about if I make us some tea while we wait?" Erik asked. "I'm sure I can manage to boil some water without burning it."

She managed to respond with a little laugh. "Tea would be good," she said. "It is, after all, the cure for all complaints—at least among the English."

Within minutes, the teakettle was whistling cheerily. Erik found the tea canister and managed to brew an adequate pot, and poured them each a cup.

"Honey?" he asked.

"What?" she asked, blinking distractedly.

"Would you like some honey for your tea?"

"Oh! I thought—yes. Please. Honey would be very nice." She scanned the kitchen, as if for something.

"Is something wrong?" Erik asked.

"You know what you need? You need a cat. A cat would make you a nice companion."

_No, Beth. _You _would make a nice companion,_ is what he wanted to say, but now was not the right time. Instead, he chuckled. The idea of him having a pet was almost comical. "I don't need another cat. I've several already."

"You do? Where? I've never seen them."

He nodded towards the door. "Out there. They live in the stable. I have several of the best mousers in all of Luxor, and before you say anything, they are well cared for."

With each sip, the strain of the day was wearing off, and the two of them were content to simply sit next to each other and say nothing. Erik knew it would help Elizabeth to talk about what happened, but he was not about to rush her and would let her set the pace.

She took another sip of tea, and then asked, "How did you find me?"

"I guess there's more than a little detective in me," Erik said. "I've made a poor host, haven't I? I had promised you safety, and then this!"

"You mustn't blame yourself."

Erik shook his head. "It's hard not to." He went on to tell how he and A'aqil had visited the police station. "I already suspected of Asmari of being involved," he said.

Elizabeth nodded. "He's the one who broke into my room," she said, a slight quiver in her voice.

"Chloroform?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Erik went on to say how his suspicions had been confirmed when he spoke to one of Asmari's colleagues, and how from there, he said, they'd gone to the corrupt official's house, only to find their prey, along with his captive, had flown. When he told her about the conversation with Asmari's mother, Elizabeth shook her head sadly.

"Poor woman. She tried to help me, but was afraid. Now she's lost her son."

"You feel sorry for him?"

"No. Not at all. It's his mother I feel for." Elizabeth frowned, gathering her thoughts. She remembered the bruises on Erik's body and asked, "What happened to Twar?"

He frowned. "Who is Twar?"

"The man who broke into my room as you were helping me escape."

"We fought," he said flatly.

She thought back to the explosion and the fire. "Is he…dead?"

Erik nodded. "He won't be bothering anyone ever again."

"He's the one who killed Leo," she blurted out and shivered as she remembered how the Hadendowa warrior had boasted of the deed. "Bastard!" she spat out, not bothering to hold back her feelings now. "I hope he rots in hell. I hope they _all_ rot in hell." She looked into Erik's eyes, expecting to see shock at her vehemence. Instead, she saw understanding and compassion. "Was it…easier this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was it…." She hesitated. "Was it easier to kill Twar…because you've killed before?" She reddened with embarrassment. "Forgive me; I didn't mean for it to sound like that…it's only…"

She halted, trying to put into words the conflicting emotions she was experiencing. "Qutaybah was an evil man. He admitted—no, he gloated—that he responsible for Leo's death even if he didn't actually perpetrate the crime. He also spoke about a German who's no longer around. He would have had no qualms about killing me as well. Yet, in spite of all of this, the knowledge that I am the one who took his life makes me feel…I don't know. Confused, I guess. Sick."

"It's never easy, Beth," he said, easily slipping into calling her by her first name without knowing it. "But we do what we have to do to survive."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"It's not just what I tell myself. It's the truth. It is not wrong to protect yourself, to do whatever you have to do to live. The truth is, I gave Twar every opportunity to walk away but he made it a fight to the finish…just as Qutaybah did with you. Neither of us had a choice in the outcome. Give yourself time. Remember, none of those men gave a damn about you and would have taken your life without batting an eyelash. Don't feel sorry for them. You've been through a horrible time, but it's over now."

"Is it? Won't the police be wondering what happened? I'm sure the neighbors will question the explosions and the fire, and then there's Qutaybah. I highly doubt the authorities will consider a gunshot wound as a natural cause of death." Her voice shook as she spoke. "What if the police come and question us?"

"They won't. There's nothing to tie us to any of this," Erik said. "Even now, A'aqil is out there, making sure."

"But, shouldn't we report what happened to the authorities?"

"You've been through enough—your husband is dead, you were kidnapped and threatened with bodily harm. Do you really want an official investigation on top of all of this?"

"I suppose you are right," she replied in a quiet voice. "It's just that…it doesn't feel right, to sit here and not say anything. We weren't the criminals—_they _were."

"I know that, and you know that—but the authorities don't always see things the same way. And don't forget your husband. If we go to the police, Leo's name will be brought up. It can't be helped, and we still don't know his full involvement in all of this. Do you want his good name and reputation dragged through the mud?"

"No," she said, sadly. "Leo wasn't always the most thoughtful of husbands, but he doesn't deserve to be remembered in this way." Something said earlier in the evening came back to her. "When he was questioning me, Qutaybah said that Leo stole something from him. He said it was a treasure map of some sort. I accused the man of lying, but what if he wasn't? What if Leo really did take something that didn't belong to him?"

"We may never know. Look, why don't we do this. As long as no one asks, we won't say anything. If the authorities come round and ask questions, we'll answer what we need to, and nothing more. Is that agreeable with you?"

She paused, then nodded. "Yes, I'll agree to that—for now."

"Good. Then, for the time being, shall we consider it over?"

"Yes. It's over. And Erik?"

"Yes?"

She offered him a faint smile. "I like it when you call me Beth. The only other person who ever did that was my father."

Erik faltered. "I…I hadn't realized I was doing that," he stammered, embarrassed at having given away his secret name for her.

Voices outside interrupted them and prevented any further awkward moments.

"Sounds like A'aqil and the others have returned," she said, happy for the distraction.

Erik looked at Elizabeth and grinned. "At last," he said.

She blinked back tears and nodded. "At last."

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth lay awake in her bed. It was still a couple of hours before dawn but already the birds were twittering in trees in the courtyard. She tried putting the pillow over her head to block out the sounds, but even this did not help her get back to sleep.

When the rest of the household had returned, Talibah had been concerned with how tired and haggard Elizabeth looked and within minutes had prepared one of her herbal remedies. It was a concoction the old woman had assured her would bring sleep without troublesome dream, and at first, it did. But now she was awake again.

"No doubt it's that tea I drank so late at night," she mumbled to herself as she threw back the sheet and got out of bed. She looked at the window that faced the street and checked the shutters for the umpteenth time, even though she knew this was not necessary. She knew she was safe and if she wanted company, all she had to do was open the door and invite Safa inside.

After coming home, the Nubian girl had declared that she would sleep in the room with the Sitt. "I will protect you from bad dreams," she'd said. "Just like I did on the boat."

Elizabeth had thanked the girl but insisted that it such steps were not necessary. Undeterred, the girl then said that she would sleep outside the door. It turned out that no amount of persuasion would convince her otherwise, and that was how Safa came to be on the other side of the door, enjoying the sleep of the Innocent and less than a stone's throw away.

Quietly, Elizabeth paced the room, struggling with conflicting emotions. She was overjoyed to be safe once again, but for some reason that did not make her happy. The reality that Leo was gone had begun to set in. It was one thing when she had thought he'd only disappeared temporarily; there had always the thought that in the end, he would show up, shamefaced and apologetic. And while Leo could be annoyingly forgetful and think of himself first, he hadn't been a bad husband.

Over the past weeks, she had found herself feeling drawn to Erik. Should she feel happy that she was free of her husband? If so, did that mean she was happy that Leo was dead?

_No, this was wrong._

She went over to the dresser and pulled out her husband's journal, the one that had gotten them started on this wild adventure in the first place. She read the entries, then read them a second time, hoping there would be some clue, some inkling as to what Leo had been thinking before he'd run off, but there was nothing there to give her any peace of mind.

Outside, a noise startled her, and she dropped the book.

_Silly woman. It's only an owl._

She bent down to pick up the journal and noticed something amiss. Inside, the end paper had come loose, and something was sticking out from underneath.

"That's odd," she muttered, wondering why she hadn't noticed this before. As she took a closer look, she realized that sticking out from beneath the end paper were two more pieces of paper—a map, and a letter. She inhaled sharply as she looked at the map.

_This is what Qutaybah was talking about. _

One look at it told Elizabeth that it was a forgery, but apparently, neither Leo nor Qutaybah had realized this, and took it for the real thing. She could understand Leo's not recognizing it for the counterfeit that it was. After all, he had approached Egyptology more like a dilettante than an expert. But Qutaybah? The man dealt in forgeries on a daily basis. Surely, he of all people would have seen this.

Then it struck her, and she laughed sadly and without humor. No doubt, it was greed that had affected their judgment. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened the letter. She had immediately recognized Leo's handwriting.

_I know that there have been many times that I ignored you and took you for granted. I pray that in your heart of hearts you will find it in yours to forgive me. If I make it out of this pickle alive, I promise I'll make it all up to you in spades! If not? Well then, don't waste your time mourning me. It's been a jolly five years, and I wouldn't have traded it – or you – in for anything in the world…_

Elizabeth blinked back tears that were starting to form. It turned out that Leo had been thinking about her after all. But…what about that other letter, the one that sounded so hopeful? She read on.

_I'm hiding this letter, because I suspect that my new 'partner' would not appreciate my telling you the truth—that I've found myself involved with some very shady, and very dangerous characters. He even suggested that I write you a letter in advance to tell you that all is well! _

_No doubt, you are wondering how I was fool enough to get myself in such a mess. Well, it started when I stumbled upon a piece of artwork when visiting the bazaar a couple weeks ago. It's different from anything I've ever seen before and I suspected that it was from that heretic pharaoh you're always talking about. I'll keep this short and simply say that I made some inquiries, met with some people and thought I was making a deal that would allow me to do something fantastic—find a royal tomb. I thought I was going to make you proud of me, but I'm beginning to suspect that this is not the case. _

_Along with this letter is a map. I confess that I absconded with it, not to find the tomb myself, but as a form of insurance that my partner will deal honestly with me. But I wonder… _

The letter fluttered to the floor. Elizabeth closed her eyes and imagined Leo out in the desert with Qutaybah, knowing that he had signed his own death warrant when he took the map. And then she cried—cried for her husband, for the life they might have had, cried over the senseless loss of life.

From somewhere in the house, music soft and sad and sweet made its way into to her mind. She sniffed, her tears at last dried up, and went over to the window that looked out onto the courtyard. Across the way, she cold see lights on in the main house, and she realized that it was Erik playing the violin and she knew without being told that he was playing for her.

She stood at the window and let the music comfort and soothed her. "Thank you, dear friend," she whispered. And when the music finally stopped, she is able to go to sleep.

-0-0-0-

Erik sat down in the courtyard of his house to read the afternoon newspaper. Like most of the household, he had slept late, and while it was close to three o'clock in the afternoon, it felt like early morning.

"Coffee, Master Erik?" Safa asked, looking surprisingly refreshed after spending the night guarding Elizabeth's bedroom.

"Yes, and see if Talibah has something in the kitchen. Maybe some pastries?"

"Ah!" the young girl said, grinning. "The Master's sweet tooth is acting up."

Erik couldn't resist the urge to chuckle. After the intensity of the past weeks—the trip to Amarna, finding Leo Brackenstall dead, and culminating in Elizabeth's abduction and rescue—it felt good to relax and enjoy a little bit of indulgence.

"Is Mrs. Brackenstall awake yet?"

Erik had been concerned about Elizabeth since waking, but didn't have the heart to disturb her rest. He hoped that old Talibah's magic potion had done the trick, and that she'd gotten the untroubled rest she so desperately needed.

"Yes. She woke up about half an hour ago. I helped her draw her bath and got clean clothes out for her. I would have stayed, but she said she didn't want to keep me from my regular duties."

"How did she look?"

"She looked fine, Master. A little worn, but she is a strong woman. In time, she will shake this all off, but right now, she needs us."

Erik couldn't have agreed more. "Thank you, Safa. Now, I'll let you go get that coffee and pastries." He was browsing through the paper when he looked up and saw Elizabeth enter the courtyard. Once again, she was wearing a cream-colored caftan and her hair was loose. There were little smudges under her eyes, and he could see that she'd tried to hide the evidence of a night spent crying, but in spite of all this, she managed to smile when she greeted him.

"May I join you?" she asked, maintaining a proper demeanor, not wanting her host to know how much turmoil she was still feeling inside.

Erik immediately got up and pulled a chair out for her. "But, of course," he said, matching her polite courtesy.

"Thank you, for last night," she said.

Erik gave her a puzzled look.

"For the music," she explained.

"Oh. I wasn't sure if you could hear it."

"I did. It was very soothing, and helped me sleep."

At that moment, she looked forlorn and vulnerable. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and hold her, but feared she would reject such a personal touch. Her injuries, the ones she'd suffered inside, were still too fresh. He glanced at the book she was carrying and changed the subject. "What have you brought with you? Some reading to take your mind off things?"

"Actually, it's Leo's journal."

The tinkling of little bells informed them that Safa had returned. "I guessed you might be joining Master Erik," she said, "and so I brought an extra cup and a dish of sweet cakes made with nuts and honey."

Elizabeth accepted her cup of coffee. "Thank you," she said graciously. "This is just what I need." She took a sweet cake and nibbled it, doing her best to act normal. "Mmm…this is delicious. Did Talibah make this today?"

Safa nodded and grinned. "Grandmother Talibah is a wonderful cook, don't you agree? I am so glad that Master Erik asked her to come to Luxor with us."

Erik made a snorting sound. "I don't quite remember it that way," he mumbled. "But, as long as everyone's happy, that's all that matters."

"Would I be correct in assuming that there were no policemen pounding on the door this morning?" Elizabeth asked, trying to match Erik's light mood but feeling jittery nonetheless.

"You would be correct," Erik replied. "In fact, I was surprised to find this in the newspaper already. Safa, you might be interested in this, too, as it involves an acquaintance of ours."

And he read the short article in the paper:

_Although one may ever know the entire story, residents of Luxor will sleep easier tonight, knowing that several well-known but shady characters are no longer around to trouble us. The local police establishment has informed us that a man known only as Qutaybah, an antiques dealer recently from Cairo and who we've learned was renowned for his dealings with nefarious underworld characters, and Officer Asmari of the Luxor Police, as corrupt a petty official as we have ever seen, are both no longer around to vex the honest men and women of our city. Both died last night in a spectacular explosion and fire that was preceded by reports of gunfire. Also reported dead is one of this Qutaybah's henchmen, a wicked Sudanese who had a violent reputation. _

_There is also sad news associated with these events, namely the loss of one of our city's most respected and honorable citizens, Herr Ehrhart Riemenschneider, late of Germany. How Herr Riemenschneider, a paragon of honesty in the buying and selling of antiquities and who met with a grisly end, came to be involved in these unfortunate events is not clear. The authorities are ready to close the book on the investigation, certain that all these deaths are connected and surmise that this was all part of an underworld deal that went terribly wrong, suggesting that Herr Riemenschneider was somehow dragged unintentionally into the affair. Whether our German friend died at the hands of Officer Asmari during an argument, or those of the fiendish Qutaybah, may never be resolved. All good citizens of Luxor will mourn his loss…_

Erik smiled sadly. "Good old Riemenschneider – in the end, he gets to be the hero."

"I am sorry he is dead, Master," said Safa.

"You are? After the way he was always making advances towards you?"

She nodded. "Like you, I enjoyed matching wits with him." As she left to go back into the main house, Erik could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes.

Elizabeth sat silently for several moments, taking in the impact of the story. "I guess this means there will be no questions for us."

"So it would seem," Erik said. "I should think you would be relieved."

"I am, even if I don't look it." She took another bite of the sweet cake. "Even if the police never know, I am now able to fill in some of the blanks," she said, and pointed to the journal sitting on the table in front of her. "Last night, after sleeping soundly, I woke up. When I couldn't get back to sleep, I decided to turn on the lights and read Leo's journal. I thought perhaps I'd missed something."

"And you did?"

"Yes." She pulled out the map and the letter. "Please, read it. You've risked so much, first to help me find Leo and later, to help me. You have as much right to know what was going on as I do."

She handed Erik the letter and waited while he read its contents. When he'd finished, she handed him the other piece of paper. "And here's the map. They were both hidden under the end paper in the back of the book. I might not have noticed it right away if I hadn't dropped the journal, causing the repair to break open."

"So, there was a treasure map after all," Erik said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is it real?"

"Hardly. As I told Qutaybah, there was no Pharaoh Tut-Ankh-Aten ever buried at Amarna. If he's buried anywhere, it would be across the river, in the Valley of the Kings and it would be under the name he assumed shortly after his accession to the throne, that of Tut-Ankh-Amun. And if anyone ever finds his tomb, I have little doubt but that it was broken into and its treasures stolen in antiquity."

He digested what she told him, then looked at her and saw she was frowning. "Is there something else troubling you?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm thinking that I must return to England soon." She saw the surprised look on Erik's face. "Did you forget? Once…" She choked back a little sob. "Once Ra'id returns with Leo, I'll have to take him home…to repatriate his remains to England. The estate will need to be settled."

Erik berated himself for having forgotten this. _What did you think, that she would swoon into your arms as soon as her husband was found? She's a proper Englishwoman; she'll do the proper thing._

She gazed fondly at the garden-filled court, with its fountain and statues, remembering the day she'd first called on Erik. Who would have ever thought that so much would have happened between them? "I hate the thought of leaving Egypt," she said. "Of leaving this place. You've done so much for me, been a true…friend." She halted, fearful of admitting that what she was feeling for Erik was more than friendship. "Perhaps," she offered tentatively, "you would like to accompany me?"

Erik shook his head sadly. He realized now that she had never thought of him as anything more than a friend. That's all he could ever hope to be, to a woman such as she. A good woman. A proper woman. He mustered the right words to say, "I'm sorry, but I cannot leave Egypt."

"Does this have something to do with your past?"

Erik hesitated. Something dark and painful flashed in his eyes, something old and dangerous he kept buried deep within, and she knew not to press for answers.

At last, he admitted that it did indeed have to do with his past, but offered no more. Though he could feel the attraction to her, that the two of them were being drawn to each other, he knew that his past would always be there, creating a barrier between them. He was, in spite of everything, still a violent man—a criminal and a killer. He hadn't been forced to kill Twar, had he? He could have simply left the man unconscious, but he didn't. He hadn't needed to blow up the house, had he? He did it because he _could_.

Even if Elizabeth did not realize this, he did.

_She deserves better than a fugitive from the law, a man who, if the sûreté knew he was back on the Continent, would be hunted again. What a fool I've been, to think that I could win a such a woman!_

Elizabeth looked at Erik, feeling not only the attraction but also the guilt associated with it. Then she remembered the confusion of emotions that Leo's letter had stirred up and knew that she needed time to sort out her feelings.

_He deserves better than a woman who is too repressed to give herself freely to him…a woman who, truth be told, is afraid of the passion he keeps hidden deep inside__. What a fool I am, to think that I might appeal to him. _

They sat looking at each other, saying nothing, keeping their true feelings buried deep inside.

_That's something else I have in common with Brackenstall. Not only did we fall in love with the same woman, but we were both fools,_ he thought. _Except, he ran off looking for the treasures of Egypt, when all along, he had the greatest treasure of them all but was too blind to see it._

-0-0-0-


	32. Regrets

**Treasures of Egypt  
****Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 32  
Regrets**

"_Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future."  
_**~Fulton Oursler**

Elizabeth sat at the desk in her suite, the gentle swell of the Mediterranean providing a soothing rocking sensation. When she tried to think of the weeks immediately following her rescue, she found that they were little more than blurs interspersed with small events. One event that stood out was Madame Chrétien's arrival with her completed mourning wardrobe. Thinking about Leo being murdered was depressing enough, but to see all that black crepe and silk? It had been almost more than she could bear. And then there had been Ra'id's return…and Leo's. Thankfully, Ra'id and the men who had gone with him to recover the body had not encountered any difficulties. It seemed that Qutaybah had been focusing all of his attention on what was taking place in Luxor.

Throughout the whole business, Erik had been a saint to her, looking after her every need, seeing that she did not have to deal with petty bureaucrats such as Under Secretary Pleydell-Bouverie at the British Consulate, making arrangements for Leo's remains to be properly prepared for transport—although from what she could remember, the morticians surely didn't have much to work with—arranging passage by rail from Luxor to Alexandria via a stop in Cairo and booking her on one of the passenger ships leaving out of Alexandria.

"Will there be anything else, Ma'am?" asked the maid as she brought Elizabeth her tea and biscuits.

Elizabeth acknowledged the young woman with a nod. She had told the under secretary that she did not require the services of a maid but the man had been adamant. It would not be proper for the widow of Viscount Brackenstall to be traveling alone, he'd said indignantly. She had been in no mood to argue the matter and allowed the punctilious man to secure the services of a woman by the name of Alice Kramden.

Alice was nondescript in appearance and could have been anything from her mid-twenties to her mid-forties. She had past experience as a lady's maid and came with excellent references. She was working her way back to England, deciding that she missed her homeland enough to say good-bye to her previous employer. The woman knew her job, stayed discreetly out of the way and only made her presence known when absolutely necessary. Though Elizabeth was reluctant to admit this, the services of a good maid were making the trip home a bit more tolerable.

"No, Alice, that will be all."

The maid curtsied and left the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts…

-0-0-0-

The last days in Luxor had been difficult, to say the least. Elizabeth found herself torn between longing to stay in her beloved Egypt and the knowledge that her final duty to Leo needed demanded her attention.

She remembered only too well the painful farewell. It was at Erik's house. They'd been in the courtyard.

"I'll be back," she said to Erik, to two of them standing, gazing at one another as she choked back the swell of emotions that was welling up in her.

_Why does he look at me like this? Doesn't he understand that I must go home? Does he not trust me to return?_

She did her best to reassure Erik and forced herself to smile. "I promise. It's only that—" But she could not finish what she really wanted to say.

_It's_ _only that I'm confused, that recent events have left me unsure of myself and what I want._

"I'll write often, dear friend," she continued, afraid to acknowledge how she truly felt, needing to distance herself from her emotions. What was worse was the hurt she saw in his eyes.

"Friends? Is that all we are?" Erik asked.

"No…yes…I don't know." She felt helpless, looking at him, at the face she'd come to love, at the man who had awoken passions she'd forgotten she had but was afraid to admit. It was like falling into a deep abyss with no way out.

"Come with me," she invited again. When he didn't reply, she added, "I don't know what I will do without you. I…I shall miss you, Erik." She turned and looked about the courtyard and saw Safa, Talibah, A'aqil and Ra'id standing off to the side, waiting their turn to wish her farewell. "I shall miss _all_ of you." She fought back tears.

"We'll miss you too, Sitt," said Safa, speaking for everyone and dabbing her eyes.

The household staff stood awkwardly, a little embarrassed at witnessing something personal. "Don't we have work to do?" said A'aqil. The others nodded in agreement and slipped away, leaving the master and his lady with the privacy they deserved.

"Stay, Elizabeth," Erik pleaded. "Let the lawyers take care of these things."

"It's not that I want to go, but that I must. I owe it to Leo's parents. After a memorial service, after I've settled affairs in England, I will return. I love...I love Egypt. You know that. But I must see this through."

"Did not a great teacher say, 'Let the dead bury the dead'?"

Elizabeth looked at him, beseeching. "What is it, Erik? What do you really want to say to me? This may be your last chance," she urged. "Don't let it slip away."

He let out a heavy sigh. "I...I'm afraid I'll never see you again."

She held her hand out to him. "Then come with me."

"Do you really want to introduce _me_ to your late husband's family?" He rounded on her angrily, his frustration breaking through. His expression became harsh, almost threatening. "To _your _family?"

"The Brackenstalls? Perhaps not under these circumstances, but when the time is right—"

He backed away slightly, miming an introduction. "This is my friend, Erik Rien," he spat out sarcastically. "He is nobody—"

"Don't! Don't speak that way!"

He continued, ignoring her. "When Leo went to him for help, Erik refused him—"

"Stop it!"

"If he had done as Leo asked, my husband might still be alive." He scowled, irritated with himself for treating her so cruelly and for letting his emotions nearly get the better of him.

"You…you blame yourself? After all you've done, you blame yourself? How can you possibly—?"

He gathered his courage.

_It's all or nothing. If, as she said, there may never be another chance, I must tell her everything that I've been keeping from her._

"Don't you see? It _is_ my fault. I wanted him to be dead—or at least out of your life! Don't you understand?" He gazed intensely and he was determined to keep nothing back. His courage burbled into anger and frustration – anger at his own hesitation, frustration at her reluctance – and it was a terrifying combination. His hands rose as if of their own volition and gripped her tightly 'round her arms. "Elizabeth, I am in love with you! I think I have been in love with you since that day on the boat, when we sketched the cliffs at Qena."

She pulled away from him. This was a side to Erik she had never seen before, and it frightened her. He may have spoken of a violent past, but even under the most difficult of situations, he had always been a gentleman towards her. "No," she said, shaking her head as she fought off the tears that threatened to appear. "Don't say it."

"Why?" he asked coldly, accusingly. "Because you are still in love with your husband?"

She looked into his eyes and saw the fiery passion in them. "In love? Yes, it's true—I loved Leo. In spite of his shortcomings, there was real affection between us. Would it be easier for you if I said I did not love him, that my marriage was strictly one of convenience? That every time he touched me, I—"

"Don't!" he said, letting go of her, hating himself for being such a boor. If he had thought of Leonidas Brackenstall as unmannered and unthinking, then what was he? The old self-loathing boiled up again and he felt himself crumple up inside, like a sail that lost its wind. Tears began to flow, hot as fire and every bit as unwelcome.

_No! I will act this way! I will not…fall apart. Not in front of her!_

"Erik," she said softly and with tenderness. "If you are my friend, stop torturing me—and stop torturing yourself."

When next he spoke, he had regained his composure, letting the love he felt for her pour forth. "Beth," he said, the longing in his tone seductive, almost overpowering. "Don't you see? I...I am your destiny. Can you not feel it? Or am I the only one who—

"No. Don't say it. Not yet. I'm not free."

"Say you don't love me, and I will stop...stop begging you to stay."

"Erik, I...I am your friend. If you are mine, you will not ask me to betray the memory of my late husband."

His shoulders slumped with resignation. "I will always be your friend, but you must be patient with me. I am still learning how."

"I _will_ come back, Erik. I promise." He looked at her with eyes that both pleaded and adored. She held out her hand. "Shake on it?"

Erik had managed a chuckle. "A handshake?" He looked at her, saw the sincerity on her face and said, "Do Englishwomen break their promises?"

"Not this one."

-0-

Elizabeth glanced about the room. The maid was gone—doing whatever it was that servants did when they were not needed by their mistresses. Now that she was alone, Elizabeth took out the book she had found packed amongst her things. She smiled as she looked at it, and her eyes misted a little. It was the sketchbook Erik had brought on the trip to Amarna and now, all its pages were filled with pictures and portraits colored in with the pastels.

There were pictures of grand temples and humble villages they had passed during their journey, of the men towing the boat around the Qena Bend and of the _haboob _as it bore down upon them. There were _fellahin _operating the shadufs, boys driving their herds of goats and farmers plowing their fields. There were colossal statues, delicate minarets and desert sunsets.

On other pages were portraits of the members of the household, each doing daily tasks that she thought of with great fondness. There was Safa drawing water from a well, and Talibah cooking over the campfire. A'aqil was there, too, seated on donkey back with his long legs dangling, and Ra'id, looking strong and brave. There were studies of each face—some were laughing, some angry and a few even sad.

Nowhere could be seen the pictures of the other woman, but there were several portraits of herself. She saw herself as he saw her – sometimes vulnerable, other times worldly. She had never thought of herself as beautiful, but in these pictures, it was obvious that Erik did. But what made her heart skip a beat was when she came to the end of the book and found the portrait Erik had drawn of himself.

He was dressed as he had been that day they'd first met, in dark-colored _galabeya_ and _keffiyeh_. He had spared no details and even with the scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, she could see that he had included the deformity that covered the right side. On his chest, she could see he had drawn the pectoral hawk he often wore—Ra-Horakhty, the sun god reborn. Underneath, he'd written, "_Rappelez-vous moi_."

_Remember me._

-0-0-0-

It was late in the evening, the only light in the study being that cast by the alabaster lamps in the room. Erik sat at his desk, pretending to examine a new journal of Egyptology and the findings of the recent excavations around the Ramesseum at Karnak, but Safa knew better.

"She'll return, Master," the young serving girl said, bringing Erik the iced tea he'd requested. "She's only been gone a week. It takes time to travel to where she is going."

Erik shook his head, dejected and sad. "I'm not so certain. Once she is back home with her family, she will come to realize that England is where she belongs."

"What is this England like, Master?"

Erik went over to the globe over in the corner of the room. "See this island here, surrounded by water? This is England. It is a land covered with green forests and green pastures."

"Not at all like Egypt?"

"No," said Erik. "Not at all like Egypt." He pointed to Egypt, demonstrating the distances involved.

"But…she promised. The Sitt is not a lady who makes promises lightly."

Erik forced himself to smile. "Oh, Safa. You have a heart that could encompass the whole world." He watched the frown form on her face as she struggled to understand his meaning. "I know what's troubling you; you're worried about me. You needn't be, though. I'm not going to pine away. This isn't the first time I have had to deal with rejection."

He walked back over to the desk, sat down and picked up the iced tea, staring at the golden liquid.

_She asked me to come with her, but I knew I couldn't. What if someone recognized me? What then? No, it is better this way, with a clean break. In time, she will be able to move past her grief. She is a good woman, an attractive woman. At some point, she will meet another man, a good man. A better man._

"She said she would write," Safa said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Yes, she did," Erik replied distractedly, caught up in his own pain.

Safa looked around the room. "I never realized how quiet, how lonely this house could be."

_That is because it has lost its heart,_ though Erik. _Just as I have lost mine. _

-0-0-0-

"Master?"

Talibah's voice startled Erik. How long had it been? He'd completely lost track of time since Elizabeth's departure. Then he remembered that he had been in his study, reading, and realized that he had fallen asleep at his desk, his head resting atop his arms. When he raised his head, there stood Talibah, looking grandmotherly and caring. A scowl formed on his face. He didn't want her fussing over him. "Go away," he said weakly.

The old woman came in anyway. "It's dark in here. Let me open the curtains." She walked over to the windows and started pushing the fabric aside. Golden rays of light poured into the room, chasing away the gloom.

Erik grimaced. "I said, leave me! I want to be alone," he growled, but his posturing had no effect on the old crone. Instead of running off, she boldly walked up to him.

"Old Talibah sees more than you think she does," she said gently.

Erik cursed softly under his breath and dragged a shaky hand across his grizzled chin. "May I not have a moment's peace—in my own home?"

Talibah looked at him. Her life had been anything but easy. She had seen wretchedness and desolation, happiness and joy…and everything in between. She reached out with aged hands that had brought comfort to many a brow and touched his hair gently, tentatively. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned into her hand and allowed her to soothe him. "There, there," she said tenderly, like a mother to a hurt child, and wrapped her arms around him.

Erik made a half-hearted effort to pull away. "Please," he said with a breaking voice, "please leave me alone."

"You need proper rest, Master. Safa sees this. A'aqil, Allah bless his ornery hide, he sees this, too. We all see it. You miss the Sitt terribly. You and she, you are of one soul. Each without the other is only half-alive." She stepped back and smirked. "But what you need right now is a good bath and a bed to sleep upon."

Erik fought back the emotions rising inside. "I let her leave because I knew it was best for her. I could have forced her to stay. I could have…taken her away where no one would ever find her. I could have…." He shook his head. "I'll never see her again. I know that now."

The old woman touched his shoulder and felt the tension slip out of his body. "This parting is only temporary, young Master. You mark old Talibah's words; I have had a vision. Before the year is out, you and the Sitt will be together again, and never again will the two of you be parted."

Erik managed a gently scoffing laugh. "Am I supposed to believe your mumbo-jumbo? You don't have to humor me."

Old Talibah slowly shook her head. Her young master was smart and intelligent, but also extremely headstrong. She tried another tack. "You know, I had a son...once. A long time ago. He died of smallpox."

"I'm sorry." And he really was, knowing this old woman must have once had a family of her own but was now alone in the world.

She could see that he was sincere. "He was disfigured by the disease," she continued. "Had he lived, he'd have worn a scarf like you." She stopped to let her words sink in. "Had he lived, I would have been proud if he had been half the man you are."

"I'm...not much of a man, Talibah," he said sadly.

The old woman snorted. "Nonsense. Now, go clean up and rest. I have a nice pot of that lamb stew that you enjoy so much. I'll bring you a bowl of it."

Erik raised his hands in protestation. "I'm not hungry," he said, though the growling of his stomach told the old woman differently.

Talibah laughed softly. "I know, but allow this old woman to feel she is earning her keep and let me fuss over you."

Erik yawned, and looked up, slightly embarrassed at revealing how poorly he'd been taking care of himself. His eyes traveled over to the sofa. "Perhaps I should lie down for a while."

The woman nodded. "Yes. Rest, son. Let old Talibah take care of everything."

-0-0-0-

_London, England  
__February 22, 1887_

_My Dear Friend,_

_The trip home has been pleasingly uneventful. At first, I was upset and more than a little angry with how Leo's so-called friends have ignored me, but I have found that the lack of callers is a blessing in disguise. This way, I don't have to pretend that these people care about me. The truth is, they have always looked down upon me, thought me an adventuress who snared Leo for only one reason – his money. _

_I am comfortably ensconced with my in-laws – Lord Ulysses Brackenstall and his wife, Lady Beatrice. Lord Brackenstall is a man of formidable appearance – tall with a fleshy build and black hair that used to be thick but is beginning to think on top. He is terribly opinionated and is the kind who will not accept any judgment other than his own. He is not the sort who engenders tender feelings in others but he is Leo's father and for that reason, I shall treat him with respect. _

_Lady Beatrice is very much the proper English lady. The way she behaves, you would think that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but her demure exterior disguises the real woman… _

-0-0-0-

The funeral service had been an appropriately somber affair, though for Elizabeth it was all anti-climatic. She had lost Leo months ago when he'd gone off searching for buried treasure. All of this show of grief was being done to satisfy the needs of his living family. Life at the Brackenstall townhouse had been tolerable where she had been coolly accepted, and what Elizabeth was looking forward to the most was finishing business here in London and returning home to visit her father in the Cotswolds.

Two days after the funeral, Elizabeth was invited to meet with Lord Brackenstall. She had looked at the formally written note with a sense of foreboding. He may have called it an invitation, but in truth, it was a command, and Lord Ulysses H. Brackenstall was not a man to be ignored.

At the appointed time, she found herself sitting demurely in the study with two men – her father-in-law and Mr. Pilkington, Lord Brackenstall's solicitor. She promised herself to do her best not to ruffle any feathers. Her father-in-law had never approved with his youngest son's marriage to the daughter of a doddering old professor over any one of the many society belles whose bloodlines were much suitable to one of Leo's exalted station, though once he realized the wedding was a done deal, he had reluctantly accepted her. She suspected, however, that her situation was about to change and was not surprised by what happened next.

Lord Brackenstall rose from his seat behind the desk and purposely paced the room. He stopped in front of her and looked hard at Elizabeth. "You do realize that my son left many debts, do you not?" he asked, his eyebrows arched.

Elizabeth glanced over at the mouse-like Mr. Pilkington, who was sitting off to the side, and caught the smug and condescending expression on his face.

_Damn and blast! These people want nothing more than to put me in my place. Well, we shall see._

She straightened her back and sat a little taller. She would show them the kind of character a Cutteridge had. "Yes, I know there are some debts, but they should not be _that _significant, should they? My husband's estate should be more than enough to cover them."

_Or is it? Leo was never very good when it came to money. _

She sat quietly as Lord Brackenstall explained in nauseating detail that as a third son, Leonidas's share of the estate was only marginal, while her late husband's debts were far more significant than she had realized. To prove his point, he handed her a document, detailing the extent of her late husband's obligations. She shouldn't have been, but was surprised to discover that in addition to their own expeditions, he had also been funding a number of speculative investments, most of which had returned very little.

"In short," her father-in-law droned on, "you will be given an allowance that will permit you to live in relative comfort—so long as you avoid unnecessary extravagance."

Elizabeth lowered her head, as if she were distraught by both the loss of her husband and what she was being told. What she was really doing, however, was hiding her face so that Brackenstall could not see the anger that flared in her eyes.

_You odious man. You mean for me to live quietly and frugally and stay in the background. In short—no expeditions. At least, none funded by Brackenstall money. You made it known five years ago what you thought of our marriage and what you called our traipsing around Egypt, living among savages. Arrogant bastard. _

She took several deep breaths, and when she felt herself able to look the man in the eye once again, she found that he was still talking. "Of course, should you remarry—as you no doubt will, being a rather handsome woman in her prime—your allowance will cease, as you will be your new husband's responsibility."

She ground her teeth, trying to keep from saying something inappropriate, but a person could only take so much of the man's conceit. She stiffened her spine once again and said, "I do not require your support. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Brackenstall said with a sneer in his voice.

_I've been threatened by better men than you, Lord Brackenstall. After all that I endured while in the clutches of Qutaybah, your petty threats do not frighten me._

"I am recognized as an archaeologist of some note. I shall publish my journals, my work in Egypt—"

"Impertinent woman!" he stormed. "You'll do no such thing. I'll not have the world thinking the Brackenstalls do not take care of their own."

Beth allowed herself the luxury of glaring back at the man. He wasn't so much concerned about her well being as to the reputation of the Brackenstall name. "When did you ever treat me as anything but a poor relation? Oh, damn and blast! You can keep your money and your blue blood and everything that goes with it!" She rose from her chair as if to make for the door.

"You'd best think twice before walking out on me, Madam."

"I am merely going to go to my room to make certain that I take nothing of yours when I leave," she said fiercely. "Leo's possessions are up there, too. All I shall take are his journal, the letters he wrote to me, and our wedding rings. I trust that will suit you?"

Lord Brackenstall stared at her in disbelief. "Thank God, there were no children," he said after she left the room.

-0-0-0-

As she walked down the hallway, she ran into Lady Beatrice. "Will you be staying with us, my dear?" the woman asked.

"No, Lady Beatrice. I'll be leaving soon. Your husband has already explained my financial situation, and I have no wish to continue being a burden upon both of you. Your _kindness_" – she almost choked on the word – "has left me…overwhelmed."

Lady Brackenstall looped her arm through Elizabeth's, preventing her from escaping to the peace of her room. "And just how are you holding up, dear?" the lady asked with treacle sweetness.

"I am well, thank you. I am so sorry, Lady Brackenstall. I know that Leo was your youngest and that he held a special place in your heart. He was a fine man...a good husband...."

Lady Beatrice nodded sadly. "Yes," she said with a sniff. "He always was a good boy. A bit headstrong, but his heart was in the right place."

On these points, Elizabeth could agree.

"I am pleased to see that my son did not leave you completely indisposed," Lady Beatrice said, noting the fineness of her daughter-in-law's mourning wardrobe. "I meant to compliment you on your widow's weeds. It must have been difficult to secure such things in an uncivilized land like Egypt. Did you stop somewhere along the continent and pick them up before coming here?"

Elizabeth felt her face flush as she remembered the many kindnesses Erik had performed for her. "No, Lady Beatrice. I would not have had time. A friend had these made for me in Luxor."

Lady Beatrice arched an eyebrow. "How kind," she said, suspicion in her voice. "How fortunate to have such a friend. Did my son know _him_?"

"_Her_ name is Mme Chrétien. She is formerly of Paris but now lives in Luxor. She is an excellent seamstress."

"Oh. I see. Yes, very generous of her, to be sure. But a lady is not indebted to others, Elizabeth. Surely, you learned that from my son."

"Yes, I learned much from your son, _Lady_ Brackenstall. We were, after all, married for five years." She raised a delicate black handkerchief to her face, not because she was crying, but because she was hiding her anger behind it.

"Five short years! Who would have imagined that when you convinced him to take you to Egypt on your silly treasure hunts that he would wind up dead before his time?"

Elizabeth bristled at the implied insult. "My 'silly treasure hunts' are what kept food on our table, Lady Brackenstall. It reaped enough to sustain us in the manner to which Leo was accustomed – or at least in suitable surroundings. He had his club, his friends, his—"

"Yes, and where is it all now, I wonder. Still, it is a comfort to know that Leo left you well provided for."

"I didn't say that."

The older woman frowned. "I trust that you aren't expecting to continuing living as the wife of a Brackenstall. You are, after all, only the widow of the youngest son of Lord Brackenstall."

Elizabeth had had enough of the insinuations and excused herself. "I must go to my room. I feel a headache coming on."

Later that day, she visited the cemetery where Leo was buried. Taking their wedding rings, which she had brought with her, she pressed them into the still-loose soil.

"Good-bye, Leo. May you rest in peace."

-0-0-0-

_Luxor, Egypt  
__March 5, 1887_

_To my very dear friend,_

_I have received your very kind letter, and am taking this time to reply. After the sad adventure we shared, I find the house to be unnaturally quiet. _

_There is some news, which I am certain you will want to hear. I have spoken to Safa about her upcoming nuptials, or rather, she has approached me on the subject, insisting that I and not her brother negotiate the bride price with Ra'id. A'aqil is perfectly comfortable with this arrangement, telling me that as her master and surrogate parent, Safa will pay more attention to what I have to say on the matter than she would to a "mere brother" as he put it. A meeting was held with Ra'id and a suitable bride price has been settled upon. My only problem now is what I am to do with all the goats and sheep I will be getting. _

_Safa has spoken to Mme. Chrétien about her bridal garments. This at first surprised me, but I soon learned that Madame is equally adept at creating both the latest European fashions as well as the most exquisite Native costumes. Although the look and style of Mlle. Safa's garments are for now being kept a great secret, I have been assured that as a member of the family, I shall see them on her wedding day. The date of the wedding has yet to be set, but I suspect from the sidelong glances being exchanged between the two of them, that it will be soon. _

_Old Talibah continues to cluck and fuss over me like a mother hen, and this only encourages Safa to do likewise. Apparently, these two women are under the impression that I am sorely in need of looking after. If anyone needs looking after, it is A'aqil, who is only growing fatter and more impudent as each day passes. It is a relief when Talibah shifts her concerns from me to A'aqil. At least she is able to keep him honest, which is more than I was ever able to do._

_If it sounds as though we are all getting along splendidly while you are away, then let me allay you of this false impression. The truth is that you are greatly missed by all, but most especially by me…_

-0-

_London, England  
__March 20, 1887_

_To my dear friend, Erik,_

_Many things have happened, but the most important bit of news is that I shall be leaving soon for the Cotswolds— and home. I am including my new address so that you can write to me there. I am going home to live with my father, as I can no longer bear to be around the Brackenstalls._

_Dearest friend, I cannot tell you how much pleasure it gave me to receive your letter. Oh, Erik, do write again and often. Your letters bring me unimaginable joy. When I read them, I feel as though you are reaching across the miles to me. Deserts, oceans and continents cannot separate true friends. You feel it too, do you not? _

Erik crumpled the letter to his lips.

"Yes, Beth. I do."

-0-0-0-


	33. Letters

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 33  
Letters**

_I am tired, Beloved,  
of chafing my heart against  
the want of you;  
of squeezing it into little inkdrops,  
And posting it._

**~Amy Lowell, "The Letter"**

_Burford, Oxfordshire, England__  
__April 3, 1887_

_Dear Friend Erik…_

Elizabeth set her pen down and glanced out the window, dreamily watching the gentle spring rain as it spattered against the windows. Winter was little more than a memory as the land came back to life. Verdant meadows were green with new grass and around the base of the trees, where banks of daffodils danced in the warm breezes. Those that got the most sunshine were already a-bloom, spreading their bright cheer. In a tree, a cardinal was singing, _"It's here! It's here!"_ as if in welcome of the change of seasons.

She smiled and picked up her pen again.

_It is raining now, a light, gentle rain, but this morning broke bright and clear. Today is Palm Sunday, and this morning I attended services with my father and my Aunt Millicent at the magnificent church here in town. It is quite large, almost as big as a cathedral, and all of Burford takes enormous pride in it. It is dedicated—(Or is it consecrated? I can never remember!)—to St. John the Baptist and has been called "the Queen of Oxfordshire." It is beautiful both inside and out, and is filled with handsome artifacts and fascinating stories. Yes, leave it to me to view a church and think of artifacts!_

_Have you ever been to the Cotswolds, Dear Friend? I am guessing that you have not. You once mentioned traveling the Continent and the Levant, but I noticed that England was never mentioned. Never mind; I shall be your guide to this area. _

_This Cotswolds is considered the English heartland and a region famous for its sleepy villages. You'll find this amusing, but the name comes from the "cots"—stone shelters built for the sheep that are raised here—and "wolds"—the rolling hills that make up this land. In other words, sheep hills! It is a land known for its rich farms, undulating hills, gentle streams…and sheep. Lots and lots of sheep! In fact, the Cotswold sheep are famed for their heavy fleece and the high quality wool that they produce, their fleece being so thick and full that they are often called "Cotswolds lions"!_

_Am I boring you yet, Erik? I hope not, as I intend to continue with my travelogue. _

_The trip from London to Burford—which lies approximately 18 miles west of Oxford on the River Windrush and where I am now safely ensconced—was without major incident and made easy by the accessibility to the trains that crisscross the countryside. Our most pressing crisis was a delay caused by a flock of sheep—Yes, my friend, more sheep!—blocking the right-of-way at one of the stops. Once in Burford, I was met by my father and his sister, both of whom have little use for any of the Brackenstalls—other than my late husband, but I do not think you really want to read about such family bickering. _

_Our home is a lovely cottage. The small house is an old one, with its quaint thatched roof, and has been in the Cutteridge family for generations. It is constructed of the rich Cotswold stone, the honey-colored ironstone indigenous to the area and that retains a warm glow even in the coldest of winters. Your artist's eye would appreciate the way color varies with the angle of the sun. _

_If you ever come to visit, there are many things you should see. Burford itself is lovely in that old-fashioned, "typically English" village sort of way. It is very ancient and takes its name from the early "bugh" or fortified hill town that once stood at the ford. In the summer, walks along the banks of the Windrush provide a pleasant diversion, and father loves to fish for trout and grayling. Have you ever fished, Erik? _

_One of my favorite places to visit is the nearby village of Minster Lovell and its haunted hall. Yes, ghosts can be found throughout the length and breadth of England! In the case of Minster Lovell Hall, there are two ghosts. The hall was once the property of the Lovells, a family that can date their origins all the way to Conquest and was originally seated in Somerset. _

_According to the legend, back in the year 1708, work was being done on the old manor house and a secret chamber was discovered. Inside were found the skeletal remains of Lord Francis Lovell, a Yorkist supporter during the Wars of the Roses. He was a friend of King Richard III—the "wicked uncle" of English history who supposedly had his nephews, the true successors to the throne, locked in the Tower of London, never to be seen again. Lovell supported the pretender, Lambert Simnel, and fought against Henry VII at the Battle of Stoke in 1487, where he was last seen escaping from the field of battle. Nobody knew what happened to him after that…until this chamber was discovered. Apparently, Lovell had hidden himself away in this secret chamber and died there. _

_The other story regards a wedding—and a mystery. As was the custom of the day, this being back in the 1500s, a young and pretty bride married a young and handsome man. After the ceremony, the young folks played a game of "Hide and Seek"—with the bride hiding and the wedding party doing the seeking. Sadly, girl went missing and nobody could find her. Each family—the bride's and the groom's—accused the other of foul play, and in time, the owners of the manor house decided to quit the place, and this is how the truth of the lady's fate was learned. _

_While moving the kitchen implements, workers came upon one of several large oaken chests, the lead-lined ones that were used to keep vegetables fresh. When they pulled open the lid, they made a grisly discovery—the perfectly preserved remains of the bride! It was determined that the young girl had chosen the chest as her hiding place, and that when she pulled the heavy lid down to conceal herself, she struck her head and was rendered unconscious. In short, the poor creature suffocated to death in the midst of those who were searching for her. Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayley, a well-known poet and songwriter, recently wrote a ballad based upon this story, called "The Mistletoe Bough."_

Elizabeth paused, then copied out the verses of the song…

_The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,  
__The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;  
__And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,  
A__nd keeping their Christmas holiday._

_The baron beheld with a father's pride  
__His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;  
__While she with her bright eyes seemed to be  
__The star of the goodly company._

'_I'm weary of dancing now," she cried;  
_"_Here, tarry a moment - I'll hide - I'll hide!  
__And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace  
__The clew to my secret lurking place."_

_Away she ran - and her friends began  
__Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;  
__And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?  
__I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."_

_They sought her that night! and they sought her next day!  
__And they sought her in vain while a week passed away!  
__In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,  
__Young Lovell sought wildly - but found her not._

_And years flew by, and their grief at last  
__Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;  
__And when Lovell appeared the children cried,  
_"_See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."_

_At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,  
__Was found in the castle-they raised the lid,  
__And a skeleton form lay moldering there  
__In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!_

_0, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest  
__She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.  
__It closed with a spring!-and, dreadful doom,  
__The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb!_

_By now, I've surely bored you to tears with all these letters I am sending you, and my nattering on about how lovely the Cotswolds are and the ghosts that inhabit some of its houses. You can put your mind to rest on one count, however—there are no ghosts at Cutteridge Cottage. Please pass along my great affection to all, especially Dear Safa. _

Elizabeth looked up from her writing and saw that the rain had ceased. Off in the west, a rainbow stretched across the skies, bringing a smile to her face. It was a good sign, an omen of better days ahead.

Still smiling, she pulled out the sketchpad she'd bought in London along with a box of pastels. Remembering the lessons Erik had given her on _The Eye of Horus_, she began to draw some pictures of her favorite sites to include in her letter to Erik.

-0-0-0-

A'aqil locked the door to the antique shop and hung out the "Closed" sign. Business had been brisk of late, and today had been no exception. He turned to Erik, who was leaning against one of the glass cases. "Are you ready to go over the books?" he asked.

Erik frowned. "Now is as good a time as any, I suppose."

Just then, the tinkling of tiny bells announced Safa's arrival. "Master, have you forgotten? You are to speak to Ra'id today. He is waiting in the courtyard. I told him he had to wait until you closed the shop."

A'aqil sniggered. "I suspect he wants to discuss the bride price with you, Master."

"Shouldn't you be doing this?" asked Erik, not in the mood to haggle over goats and sheep. "You are her brother, after all."

"But _you_ are her surrogate father," was the Nubian's retort. "Besides, I believe Ra'id is a little afraid of you. You'll be able to negotiate a better deal."

-0-0-0-

_Luxor, Egypt  
__April 22, 1887_

_My Dear Elizabeth, _

_In your last letter, you expressed concern over the possibility that you were inundating me with mail, and that I should discourage you from writing. My dearest friend, never think that. Your letters are more precious than you know. There is only one other person I have ever corresponded with other than for business purposes, and that is Hélène—the woman who saved my life. Write me, and write often. Your letters sustain me in your absence. Tell me about your beloved Cotswolds with its sheep. They are something we have in common—but more on that shortly._

_There has been an interesting change in fortune here recently. The will of the late Ehrhart Riemenschneider was read, and it turns out that he left all his worldly possessions to me! This was a great surprise, but it appears that despite my misgivings, his protestations of friendship had been genuine. In fact, there was a letter addressed to me among his papers. I won't go into detail, but the long and the short of it is that he admired and respected me—even if he did try to pull the wool over my eyes once or twice!_

Erik paused, remembering the German's letter.

"We live in a dangerous world, my friend," Ehrhart had written, no doubt never realizing just how prophetic his words would turn out to be. "There are no guarantees in life, which is why, when an opportunity presents itself, one must grasp hold of it with all one's might."

Ehrhart had gone on to explain where, in his house, Erik would find a pair of earrings he had set aside—"Beautiful jewelry meant to adorn a beautiful lady, one with a long, elegant neck, like the delectable Widow Brackenstall." —and a bracelet for Safa. "I have always liked Fraulein Safa. She is a spirited young woman who will make some man very happy one of these days."

Sitting on top of the desk as he wrote were the pieces Riemenschneider had mentioned. All were museum quality and if sold would fetch a pretty penny indeed. The earrings were of gold cloisonné inlaid with semi-precious stones. They depicted mythical birds with duck-like heads and the outstretched wings of a falcon. Hanging from the birds' tails were beads that ended in _uraei_, the stylized sacred cobras worn by the pharaohs of old. The bracelet was likewise made of gold and inlaid with lapis lazuli, carnelian and turquoise. It bore the figure of Nekhebet, the vulture goddess of Lower Egypt. Both were of the style of the Eighteenth Dynasty, and both had obviously been made for royalty. When he mailed his letter to Elizabeth, he would mail the earrings, too.

He returned to composing his epistle, a task that was not always easy for him to do…

_A'aqil and I have been taking inventory of Herr Riemenschneider's estate. It is amazing, the quality and quantity of goods the man had acquired. Then again, considering his line of business, perhaps not. We have been sorting through everything, determining which I shall keep, which I shall sell and which I might donate to a museum or two—in Ehrhart's name, of course. It is the least we can do for the man and maybe give him a good laugh, wherever he is._

_I have also had the pleasure of negotiating Mlle. Safa's bride price, and here is where the story of the sheep comes into play. Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sounds of a barnyard outside my bedroom window. I immediately jumped from my bed and when I looked out, saw the courtyard filled with goats and sheep, all bleating and baahing as if there were no tomorrow. Hurriedly, I dressed, intending to get to the bottom of this! Imagine my surprise as I entered the courtyard, with its fountain and tiled floor and rare plants, to find goats nibbling contentedly on my orchids! And there was A'aqil, laughing until his sides hurt while Ra'id was running around in an effort to round up the strays. Yes, this was Safa's "bride price" delivered promptly. I supposed this means that the wedding will be soon!_

-0-0-0-

_Burford, Oxfordshire, England  
__May 1, 1887_

_Dearest Friend Erik, _

_You had me in stitches, reading about all those goats and sheep invading your inner sanctum. I only wish I had been there to witness it for myself. And on the subject of your household, how is everyone? Is old Talibah well? Safa and Ra'id—has a date been set for their wedding? And is A'aqil keeping you honest, Dear Friend? (Or perhaps it is the other way around!)_

_You will no doubt believe me silly for thinking this, but there is an enchantment to this land. I have been away for so long that I had forgotten about it. For the first time since Leo disappeared, since all those awful events transpired, I find my spirit awakening once again, and just as the land returns to life following the winter, so too am I coming back to life._

_Britain is an ancient land; in many ways, as old as Egypt. Its people may not have built pyramids, but they erected magnificent edifices such as the great standing stones on the Salisbury Plains, the famous Stonehenge. The Druids knew about these things, and more. They knew how to locate places of power and channel their healing powers._

_By now, you are surely laughing at me—Elizabeth Cutteridge Brackenstall, the ever-practical woman, writing such gibberish…_

_It is my fervent hope that you will one day visit and share this quietly beautiful land with me. Now that I am older—(Perhaps I should not admit this, but in two weeks, I shall celebrate my 30th birthday.)—I am able to appreciate it for its own mysterious qualities. It isn't as majestic as Egypt. (Can anything match the unique art and architecture of that lost civilization?) But it has its own appeal. For me, it is the warmth of hearth and home. If only you were here to share it with me..._

_Dearest Friend, I feel I must apologize for how I acted those last weeks in Luxor. I look back and see myself as having been cold and unfeeling. I realize now that I was trying to pretend as though nothing had happened; that the dreadful events that ensnared us did not have any impact upon me. But I was only fooling myself. I see that now. I also see that my soul had been damaged, that I could not return the affections you offered me. There is still pain in my heart over what occurred, but I am coming to terms with the painful memories. _

_I have other good news to relay. Recently, I was in contact with my late husband's solicitor. The picture he paints of Leo's finances is not nearly so dire as Lord Brackenstall led me to believe. Several of Leo's investments are paying off, and quite handsomely, I might add! Even after settling all outstanding debts, a tidy sum will remain—more than enough for me to live on, and comfortably, too. _

_In fact, I am considering taking a portion of the funds and setting up an endowment in Leo's name for the British Museum. It would be nice to have a wing, or at least a gallery, named for him. The Leonidas Brackenstall Hall of Egyptian Art. It does have a nice ring, doesn't it? Perhaps you might consider donating some of Herr Riemenschneider's objet d'art for this purpose? (And on the subject of our late German friend, I want to let you know that the earrings arrived safely. In fact, when I opened the box and saw them inside, they nearly took my breath away! These really belong in a museum, but I am also just vain enough to want to keep them and perhaps, one day, wear them, and allow myself to look and feel like a queen.) _

_If I had this gallery—Or, who knows, perhaps an entire wing?—dedicated to Leo, and house some of Riemenschneider's artifacts in it, we could pay tribute to two men who, while they may have had their faults, had their good points, too._

_And it would be more than a remembrance. You may think this horrid of me, but I look upon it as a way of politely thumbing my nose at Lord and Lady B, who have spent so much of their time looking down their own proboscises at the Brackenstall Expeditions that my husband and I undertook. Imagine the grimaces on their faces whenever an event is held at the gallery, and they see Leo's name emblazoned in the newspapers! _

_Before I forget, I want to thank you for the sketchbook. I often leaf through its pages, allowing the pictures you drew to bring back memories of happier times that I hope someday we can recapture. Holding it makes me feel that somehow, I am closer to you. _

-0-0-0-

With the preparations for Safa and Ra'id's wedding, Erik had found himself questioning whether a relationship with Elizabeth would be right after all. There were no guarantees that his past would not return and destroy this new life he had created. Many French citizens came to Egypt. What if he were recognized? What if, after all these years, he was arrested for the destruction of the Opera Populaire? Did he really want to subject Elizabeth to more pain and heartache?

"What's the matter, Master?" A'aqil asked, noticing that his master had become nervous and fidgety since reading the latest letter from England.

"Nothing," Erik snapped.

"For nothing being wrong, we certainly are testy!"

Erik shot him a wicked look. "We?"

"You know what I mean, Master. When you're upset, the whole household is upset! Now, tell A'aqil what is troubling you. I thought everything was moving along quite well between the two of you. What happened? Has she thrown you over for another man? An Englishman?"

"No," Erik sighed. "It's nothing like that at all. It…oh hell. She has this insane idea that I am some kind of paragon. She's setting me up on a pedestal when I know that sooner or later, my own sordid past will rear its ugly head and when that happens, it's not just I who will be affected. She will be, too."

"I thought you told her about your past, Master."

"I told her a little, but even that, she's willing to overlook. Hell, I told her I'd killed a man! But that doesn't seem to bother her!"

"Could it be that my master is getting cold feet?" A'aqil asked impishly.

"No! And stop treating this as if it is all some kind of joke."

"Very well, then, Master. Here is what I suggest you do. If it is your past you fear, then come clean. Write to her, tell her everything—and let her decide what happens next."

"But if I tell her everything, she'll never trust me again."

"That, sir, is a chance you must take. Think of it this way. Would you want her, if she does not really know you? Would you want her, if you've won her through deception?"

-0-0-0-

_Luxor, Egypt  
__May 22, 1887_

_Reading your letters has been the greatest joy of my life, but as much as it pains me to say this, I can not in good conscience allow you to continue writing me. You seem to think I am some sort of a gentleman who sowed a few wild oats when younger, but that is not the case. The truth is, I am not worthy to call myself your friend. It is high time that I disavow you of this romantic notion that I am anything but a brigand. _

_This will be my last letter to you. It is my confession. You will hate me once you've read it. I know that I take a terrible risk by writing down the true history of my life, but I could not bear to tell you in person, could not bear to see the warmth of friendship dissolve into cold contempt. My life is in your hands._

_Sweet, trusting Elizabeth! It breaks my heart to set matters straight between us! But I must be honest with you—even it if costs me what I hold most dear: Your friendship._

_You are already aware that I went through a dark night of the soul, but you only know half the story. Not too long ago, I was a blackguard, a thief, and a liar—a dangerous man who allowed nothing and no one to stand between myself and my goals. I was convinced of my intellectual superiority, and did not hesitate to use my wits and my stealth to intimidate and blackmail those around me—not because I needed to do so in order to survive, but because it amused me. Eventually, through guile and daring, I amassed a considerable fortune. _

_You know my origins, and you know that Hélène sheltered me after my escape from my captors. She led me to a hiding place underneath the Opera Populaire, a place of unending darkness, where I lived in the filth and the cold like the vermin that I am. Hélène could offer little else but sanctuary; survival was my own responsibility, and survive I did. During my captivity, I had been shown no compassion, had never learned kindness. I had no concern for anyone around me other than Hélène. Having access to the resources of the opera, I stole what I needed in order to live. I used props and materials to make a home deep underground, where I lived like the wild animal I had become. There I lived, in my lair, for six long years, with only occasional communication with Hélène. _

_With infinite patience, she taught me to read and write and did her best to teach me how to behave like a gentleman. She encouraged me to explore my surroundings and to satisfy my limitless curiosity. By the time I was fifteen, I had read every book I could get my hands on, had learned to make forays into the city and had grown infinitely bored of my not-so-gilded cage. I hid myself at soirees, observing drunken aristocrats, learning how to be invisible to them. Soon, I was taking advantage of every opportunity to help myself to their wallets. I became bolder, and believed that nothing could stop me from getting whatever I wanted. By now, I felt restricted, confined, and realized that the vast Opera Populaire had become my prison; I yearned to explore the world that had been denied me. With the confidence of Youth, I said my goodbyes to Hélène and the only home I'd ever known. I set out for the East, lured by fantastical tales of sunshine, warmth, great castles, magicians, and hanging gardens. Some boys dream of being pirates, Beth; I wanted to be the Shah of Persia, and if not the shah, then his closest advisor. I had taught myself some tricks sure to impress feeble minds, and I used my skills as a magician and as a mesmerist to support myself. Soon, my skills were renown, granting me access to noble heads of state. My fame…or dare I say, my infamy…spread. _

_In short order, I became a Persian courtier, then, court architect. Finally, in a twist of Fate I could never have imagined when I was living underneath the glamorous Opera Populaire, I became the shah's most valuable assassin, a paid killer ordered to execute enemies of state. I took to it with few qualms. In fact, I had such a talent for it that I became known as the Angel of Death. Had I refused, I would have been tortured, blinded, kept on display, possibly even put to death when the shah tired of abasing me; but worst of all, I would have been helpless, and reduced to that filthy, impoverished state from which I had risen as a child. I vowed to do whatever was necessary in order to survive, and I bided my time until I could escape from Persia. Many men died so that I might live, Elizabeth, and though I never gave them a thought at the time, their deaths have since weighed heavily on my conscience. I am a dangerous man, make no mistake of it. I deserve nothing less than exile for all that I have done. I should be put down like the dog that I am, but God is not merciful. Perhaps this is my penance—to live, to suffer, to remember with each breath I take, all that I have cost others. _

_I'd like to tell you that I learned my lesson after escaping Persia, but it isn't true. I did not develop a conscience until much later, after I'd lost everything I loved. Exhausted, ill, without direction, I returned to the only safe place I had ever known—my lair underneath the opera house. There, I met an aspiring singer, a girl who was the embodiment of all that I was not. She was innocent, naïve, and trusting. Hearing her sing brought me a peace I had never before known, and I found myself falling in love with her. I knew that, looking as I do, I could never hope to win her heart. In the false hope that it would make her love me, I deceived her into believing that I was some sort of guardian angel. I pretended to the living embodiment of her deepest fantasies. You may wonder how I knew what she longed for, dreamed of in her heart of hearts. I knew because I deceived her into telling me…or rather, into telling people she trusted. Like the rogue I am, I eavesdropped on her conversations, stole her diary, browbeat her confidant into telling me all her secrets, and I used them to my own advantage. _

_Damned to cursed loneliness, I would have stopped at nothing to win that girl, and failing, I was determined to force her to marry me. Nothing could hold me back, not gendarmes, not reason, certainly not sanity, for my own had almost entirely slipped away. By then, I had destroyed the opera house—sweet music's throne!—and nearly killed everyone in it. She brought me back to reason with a tender kiss. Imagine it! A true angel, kissing the devil himself! It was…unholy…and yet, it saved her from me, because it became apparent that she would never return my affections. And so, I let her go. Just like that! I let her leave with the man she loved, to live as she deserved. _

_I fled to the catacombs where I hid from the raging mob that sought to hang me for my crimes. With Hélène's help, I escaped to Egypt, and after five long years, I managed to construct a new life for myself, by letting go of my hatred for mankind. I even learned to like a few people, most notably Safa and her worthless brother. Their patience with me and forthright affection for me (in spite of my strange ways) gave me hope that I, too, could attain some kind of humanity. Ironically, I wanted to make amends. I secretly made full restitution to the owners of the opera house and all employed therein. Still, all the money in the world cannot erase my sins. I can never escape my past, never escape my origins. _

_So now you know it. I am not worthy of your faith and your confidence in me. I am a monster. My haunted face only hints at the distortion in my soul._

_Are you horrified, Beth? Convinced that I am every bit the charlatan you once accused me of being? You knew what I was from the moment you first met me, yet still you turned to me for help. What was it that you saw in me—some spark of decency that I thought had long been extinguished? It hardly matters now. I am no hero. After you read this, I will never hear from you again. So let this be the end of that dream I once held, that dream in which I was your destiny. How foolish of me to imagine I could be that man! Yet always, always, I will long for your love -- a love that can never be. _

_I shall treasure the kindness you showed me, and I hope that from time to time, you will spare a thought for me. Think of me, if not fondly, then not too harshly. I have fought to redeem myself, if not in the eyes of man, then in God's eyes. Above all else, I have treasured the fact that you called me your friend, and I shall spend the rest of my days striving to be the man you thought I might have been. _

_Good-bye, my dearest love,  
~__E._

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth was sitting in the parlor, in front of the fireplace. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her shoulders were slumped as in defeat. All around, the room started to spin. She felt dizzy and put a hand to her forehead, fearing she was about to faint.

"What's wrong?"

She looked up through tear-swollen eyes at her father's kindly face. He must have heard her crying. "Nothing," she sniffed. "Everything." She looked down once again at the letter. How could she have allowed this to happen?

Old Professor Cutteridge walked over to his daughter and put an arm around his shoulder. "Won't you tell me about it? You know how it helps to air one's problems."

She shook her head, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw it into the crackling fire. Her shoulders shook as she started giving way to more tears.

"It can't be all that bad, can it?" her father said, patting her on the back the way he used to when she was a little girl. "Oh dear. Did your young man…did he write to say he was breaking it off?"

"He isn't my young man....oh...Daddy!" she wailed. "How could I have been such a fool? I should never have left Egypt," she sobbed, and let herself be drawn into her father arms. She cried and cried, allowing him to rock her back and forth.

"Has he...is he...seeing someone else?"

"No," she sniffed. "Nothing like that! No... He...he says he isn't worthy of me. He says he...." She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to continue.

"When you were a little girl, you thought I could fix anything. Even a rainy day." He held her close, comforting his only child.

"If only it were that simple! I think I've ruined everything. I should never have left him. You can't fix this, Daddy. No one can! I've ruined it." She pulled away and ran out of the room, nearly knocking Aunt Millicent over.

"What's wrong, Alpheus? What has gotten Beth all upset?"

"Something about her young man," her brother answered.

"Should I go and check on her?"

"Yes, m'dear. I think that would be a good idea." And Millicent went off in search of Beth. "In the meantime," Alpheus Cutteridge said to himself, "I'll see if I can't at least try and fix things for my little girl.

He sat at the desk, pulled out some stationery and his ancient goose quill pen—the one he loved so much—and began to write.

-0-0-0-


	34. To Begin Anew

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 34  
To Begin Anew**

"_Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently."  
_~Henry Ford

_My Dear Mr. Rien,_

_I fear my daughter is in grave danger, and we have nowhere else to turn. Since you have assisted her in the past, perhaps you would be so kind as to help her again, now that she is in dire straits. _

_You see, there is the matter of a broken heart, a lost romance, and a friend in a far-away country who refuses to acknowledge her letters. I needn't tell you who that friend is. _

_My daughter is not a woman who extends her friendship lightly, nor one who places her faith in people easily. And yet, for some reason, she has chosen you. She is a fine judge of character, and I do not for a moment believe that she would carry on a correspondence with anyone who was not suitable. _

_You have dealt my daughter a rotten blow, and in another time, I might have demanded satisfaction from you. For her sake, come here and settle this like a man—face to face, regardless of the consequences. _

_Otherwise, you must be prepared to heap this on your own conscience. _

_I'm an old man, Mr. Rien, and I know my daughter very well. She needs you now more than ever. Be a true friend and come to her. I assure you, you won't regret it—but if you do not come, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. The bond of friendship that you have forged with Elizabeth is rare indeed. Don't throw it away. _

_My dear boy, you're invited to be our guest here in Burford, under our roof, where you will allow me to thank you properly for helping Elizabeth throughout the difficulties of last Winter. Please wire when you will be coming and I shall meet you at the station__. _

_Very sincerely yours,  
__A. Cutteridge_

-0-0-0-

The day of Safa's wedding to Ra'id arrived, and it had been a wonderful occasion when the couple exchanged their vows at the mosque earlier in the day. Afterwards commenced the dancing, singing and eating. Even now, well into the evening, the party still going strong. Everyone was happy. Everyone was cheerful. Everyone, that is, except Erik.

Two day ago, he received a letter from England. At first, he had assumed that it was from Elizabeth, but a quick glance at the envelope dispelled that notion. The handwriting belonged to someone else. The question was—Whose? There was no name on the return address, only Burford, Oxfordshire, England, where Elizabeth was now residing.

Had something happened to her? Erik's heart was in his throat as he slit open the envelope, not knowing what he was going find inside but dreading that it would not be good. When he unfolded the letter and read it, he lost whatever equilibrium he had. He read it a second time, and a third. One phrase stood out and repeated itself in his brain.

_You have dealt my daughter a rotten blow. _

The implication was obvious. Though couched in terms of an invitation; it was in point of fact a demand, and Erik understood that Professor Alpheus Cutteridge's polite insistence could not be ignored—much as he might prefer to pretend he had never received the letter.

Throughout what was supposed to have been one of the most joyful of days, he had pretended to be happy, to join in the celebrations. Safa made a radiant bride. Over and over again, she and Ra'id had thanked her "father" for the magnificent wedding gift—a modest house of their own on the same street as Erik's, purchased with the proceeds of the Riemenschneider estate. That was where everyone was now, at the new house. Nervous and on edge, and assuming no one would miss him, Erik had slipped away to the privacy of his own house, and the comfort of his study.

He took the letter from the desk drawer and read it again, once more hating himself for what he had written to Elizabeth. He still believed that he had done was the right thing, but berated himself for taking the coward's way out. Her father was right; if he had been a real man, he would have gone to England and talked to her face-to-face. He would have sat with her, explained why there could never be anything between them, but he hadn't. The thought of seeing the disillusionment that would have been on her face was more than he could bear, and so he did this craven thing—he wrote a cold, unfeeling letter. And now he was suffering the consequences of his actions.

He rubbed his weary brow and sat heavily on the sofa, wishing for the first time in years that he had snifter or two of fine cognac to help numb his heartache. In his eyes, nothing he had done in the past compared to this one act. Throughout their weeks together, he had dreamed of Elizabeth, longed for her, desired her, but he had bolted like a skittish colt when she had returned those affections. He was a bounder, a lout.

A knock on the door drew Erik back from the letter. When he looked up, he was surprised to find Ra'id standing in the room with him, his bronze face clouded with concern.

"Shouldn't you be out there with your new bride?" Erik asked.

"You left the festivities early. Safa and I, we noticed. We are worried about you."

Erik waved off Ra'id's concern and flashed a phony smile. "I've got a headache, that's all. Damned drums have been beating for hours. I just needed a little peace and quiet. I'll rejoin you shortly."

Ra'id took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts before expressing them. "Do you expect me to believe this?"

"I haven't any idea what you're talking about," Erik snapped brusquely.

The other man did not take offense to his master's gruff attitude and in fact, had expected it. "It is the Sitt, isn't it? Oh, you don't have to say a word—it is written on your face."

"And what else is written there? The combination to my safe?" Erik said sarcastically.

"It's no use, Master. You cannot frighten me away." Ra'id frowned, debating how to continue and decided to try another approach. "You and my mistress, you grew fond of each other. When she took her husband's remains back to England, she promised she would return. It was obvious that you would miss her presence, but there was hope in all you did. But now? These past weeks, you have been a ghost of your former self."

Erik laughed mirthlessly at the word ghost.

_A ghost? Yes, I am a ghost. In spite of everything, I am still no better than the Opera Ghost. _

He saw the puzzlement on Ra'id's face but did not bother to explain. "Go on," he said when he noticed that Ra'id had paused. "You're doing a smashing job."

"What has happened, Master, to upset you so? Has my mistress written to you to say that she has found another?"

"No. She's done nothing of the sort."

Enlightenment struck. "Ah!" exclaimed Ra'id. "Then it is you who have written to her." He saw the stunned look on Erik's face. "I may be a poor _fella_ but I am not stupid."

The wind went out of Erik's sail with the last comment. "I…I never thought that you were," he said, not so belligerent this time.

"I have known the Sitt since she was a young girl, when her father brought her to Egypt. I have seen her grow into a beautiful woman. I saw her marry a man she thought she loved. And when he disappeared, when she came to you for help, I saw her fall in love with you and knew that she had at last found a man worthy of her. Why have you done this? It is obvious that Allah brought you two together for a purpose." When Erik did not respond, Ra'id asked, "May I speak bluntly, sir?"

"Go ahead. You've been doing a bang up job of it already."

"You may have the face of a demon." He saw Erik cock an eyebrow. "All right then, a minor demon," Ra'id amended, trying to interject a little levity. "But you are not your face."

"There you are wrong. It's not my face that is the problem. The truth is that I am bad man."

"I find this hard to believe."

"Well, it's true." To himself he thought, _I cannot believe I'm actually talking to anyone about this, much less to Ra'id! _

Ra'id was not about to be put off. "How can I believe this when all I see, when what we _all_ see, is that you are an honorable man, a man who is brave and noble. You have shown compassion on the less fortunate, and have risked your life for others. Perhaps," Ra'id said, trying to find the right words, "you have turned over a new sheep."

Erik could not help but chuckle at the malapropism. "New sheep? Do you mean, a new leaf?"

Ra'id offered a grin and copied the way he had seen Erik lift his shoulder and let it fall. "If you say so."

"What is this?" someone said. Both men turned to find A'aqil enter the study. He strutted in, dressed like a peacock in his striped coat of many colors, like the proud brother that he was. "The father of the bride and the groom stealing away from the wedding festivities? Is there something I should know about? Safa is looking for the two of you, and she's not happy."

Ra'id shot a glance over at Erik. "I think it is time we returned."

Erik nodded. "Yes, it is time."

_Time I made amends for my past, time I put the Opera Ghost to rest— once and for all. Time I went to Elizabeth and talked to her in person. I have destroyed any chance I might have had with her, but Alpheus is correct. At the very least, I owe her an apology_.

The prospect of seeing her again, even under inauspicious circumstances, made him smile.

-0-0-0-

Erik sat examining his cabin once again, mentally comparing this voyage to the one he made five years ago. Back then, he had been a crewman on a tramp steamer slowly making its way from Marseille to Alexandria by way of numerous North African ports of call along the way. Today, he was a passenger traveling in a first class suite of rooms, with every modern amenity at his disposal.

The rooms were elegantly appointed and featured mahogany furnishings with matching wainscoting. The portholes allowed the light in when the curtains were drawn, but even on a sunny day like today, the light could not come close to matching the brilliance of the Egyptian sun that brightened his courtyard in Luxor. A wan smile cracked the solemn expression on his face. Who ever would have thought he would have grown so fond of the sun?

If he wanted bright light, however, he would have to go out on deck, and he was in no the mood for that. Being on deck meant mingling with the other passengers who also wanted to enjoy a spot of sunshine. There would be introductions, small talk, questions about where one was from, where one was going, and everything else in between. No, Erik thought; better to remain inside, alone with his thoughts.

He felt stifled, keenly aware of the irony that the moment he left Luxor, he was already up to his old ways. Holing up inside his stateroom was much like withdrawing to his lair, beyond human contact—and criticism. In all his journeys, he had never felt homesick before, but already he was longing for the freedom of Egypt.

Before leaving Luxor, Erik had sent off a reply to Professor Cutteridge's letter. It had been a short missive, saying only that he was accepting the invitation to visit Burford and would wire once he was in England and could provide a date for his arrival, and included his travel itinerary, in case further contact was needed.

He deliberately omitted mentioning Elizabeth, trying to keep the message neutral. He was concerned that Cutteridge was failing to tell the whole story, that something more serious was wrong with Elizabeth, but came to the conclusion that that were the situation, the man would have come right out and said so.

He had taken the letter to the British Consulate. In this case, it had benefited that Elizabeth was the widow of a noble family, and it allowed Erik to arrange for the letter to be sent via the next diplomatic pouch, ensuring its arrival in a timely manner.

At home, he had set his affairs in order. A'aqil would take care of the antique shop and handle all business transactions in his absence. Talibah and Safa would take care of the house, while Ra'id—with young Rashid's help—was put in charge of the property and livestock. Next, Erik had gone to a tailor and had several new suits of clothing made in the latest European mode, and for the first time since arriving in Egypt, he once again wore a mask.

Back in his room, he tugged at the cravat that was strangling him. After wearing loose-fitting Arab garments for so long, Erik found that the European suits and the black wig were terribly confining and he was constantly fidgeting in them, but worst of all was the mask. Wearing it again made him feel as if he were suffocating, even though it was only a half-mask made of lightweight, flesh-colored piece of molded felt that conformed to his features like a second skin. And he wondered if perhaps it was because he was starting to feel like he wasn't a phantom any more, that he had become more at ease as a man than as a man in a mask.

-0-0-0-

Contrary to his fears, the earth did not open up and swallow him the moment he set foot on French soil. Neither did gendarmes swoop down upon him and haul him away in shackles, never to see the light of day again. Was it his imagination, or was the air fresher, cleaner here than in Luxor? The cool climate was invigorating, and an unfamiliar spirit of national pride nudged him along. Blast it, but he was glad to be back in France. As much as he loved Luxor, he had missed France, had missed its sights and sounds, had longed for the taste of cheese and crusty bread and the smell of familiar herbs and flowers. In a way, it was almost…good to be back.

He kept to himself, avoiding people as much as possible, but on the few occasions when it was unavoidable, he noticed that no one ran from him in terror. He began to relax, to allow himself to enjoy the journey, but he remained alert to the possibility that at any moment, he might be recognized and be forced to flee for his life. Memories of the angry mob beneath the ruined opera house sometimes intruded into his dreams, on the rare occasion when he slept. He was haunted by his past, but that was as it should be. He had ruined countless lives—including his own. He could not let Elizabeth be one more mistake…how had Alpheus phrased it? Heaped upon his conscience.

En route north, he stopped at Dijon. He recalled the little owl and gave in to sentimentality, his feet easily remembering the way to the cathedral and the stone bird. Putting his left hand on the carving, he closed his eyes and prepared to make a wish.

"You don't really believe in all that superstitious nonsense, do you?"

Erik looked to see a passerby eyeing him with curiosity.

"It can't hurt," he said. He turned back to the little owl, finished his wish and walked off.

-0-0-0-

As his train drew closer to Paris, it became apparent that there would be a delay for repairs_. _

_Damn it all, why did nothing ever go as easily as it should? With my luck, I'll be in prison by dawn, drawn and quartered by suppertime. _

He settled into his berth, determined to hide out until the train was well away from the city and he could breathe freely once again.

A young girl called to passengers from the platform outside his window. _"Fleurs! Fleurs!"_ she sang cheerily. Soon, a boy began hawking bread and wine, and another cheese and dried meats.

Erik shut his eyes tight and put a pillow over his head, trying to block out the noise, but it was no good. Paris was calling to him, and he could not resist her lure. A quick chat with the porter assured him that he could make a quick foray into the city and be back in plenty of time to hop aboard for the continued journey.

Paris! God, he had loved this city, this City of Light with its grand illusions and dismal realities, its art galleries and its tawdry cafes. It was a study in contradictions, the best and worst of mankind flourishing in close confines. He wandered down the grand avenues under cover of darkness, noting the changes and improvements that had been made during his absence. Familiar landmarks guided his footsteps, and he was compelled to explore his old environs. He felt more than a little bit wicked for slipping into the city that had reviled him, exhilarated by taking the risk that he'd be captured—but emboldened by the fact that he was getting away with it.

As if drawn by some unseen force, he soon found himself outside Hélène Giry's door, much as he had that night years ago, when he thought all was lost. A hesitant knock, a startled answer, and soon he was sitting across from her in a tidy little room filled with memorabilia from her days as ballet mistress at the opera.

"I must say, you are the last person I was expecting to walk through my door," Hélène said as the two of them sat in the parlor. "Would you like something to drink? Some tea, perhaps, or maybe something stronger?"

Erik looked at Hélène, surprised, but pleasantly so, at her warm welcome. When he had knocked at her door, he hadn't been sure what to expect. The last time they spoke, she had been both angry and sad. He had written to her a few times over the past years, but never anything of length, mostly short letters to assure her that he was alive and not haunting any more opera houses.

"Tea would be fine," he said at last when he realized that she was waiting for him to respond. He looked around, taking in the room. Nothing had changed from the last time he had been here—the wallpaper was the same, the furniture was the same, the rug was the same, even Hélène looked the same, except for a little more gray around the temples. The only thing different was him. This time, he was a well-dressed, well-to-do gentleman calling upon an old friend.

"Wool gathering?" she smirked.

"I guess you could say that," he admitted.

She returned with the tea service and poured them each a cup. "Sugar? Cream? Now, tell me everything. What brings you back to Paris, and what have you been doing with your life? Those letters I get maybe once or twice a year barely scratch the surface." A thought occurred to her. "You're being here doesn't have to do with Christine, does it?"

"No, Madame. These days, Christine is the last person on my mind."

She sat down and gave a little _hmph_. "If you say so," she said but her tone betrayed her skepticism. "Then why are you here? Bored with your new life?"

"Not at all. In fact, my 'new life' as you call it is the reason I left Egypt and came here. I need to put O.G. to rest once and for all. I'm not proud of what I did in the past and would like to begin anew, but that is hard to do when all the time I wonder if someone will recognize me, if one day the gendarmes will come knocking on my door."

"Then let me put your mind at ease. As far as the world is concerned, not only is the Opera Ghost dead, but he died a hero's death."

An eyebrow shot up. "A hero's death, Madame? Please elucidate."

"As you no doubt expected, the authorities called upon all of us who lived and worked at the old Opera Populaire, in their efforts to track down the madman who'd abducted the singer and burned the place down. No, don't interrupt. Once I knew you were safely out of the city, I went to the police station and 'confessed' that I had, in the past, been in contact with the Ghost. They immediately assumed that my cooperation with O.G. had been coerced, and I allowed them to continue believing this to be so. I told them that I had been contacted by the Ghost before he left Paris; that he had gone to Le Havre and from there assumed the identity of a reclusive gentleman and booked passage on a ship to Canada."

"Then it _was_ you who told that story to the police," Erik said, recalling the article in the newspaper that summer he had worked on the canals. "I always suspected as much."

"You knew this? But…how?"

Erik could not resist the urge to chuckle. At least he still had the ability to surprise the old ballet mistress. "I saw a brief notice in the paper that summer that said the police were calling off the manhunt, that the criminal had fled the country."

"Well, yes—it was I."

"You said O.G. died 'a hero's death'—what do you mean by that?"

"I didn't go to the police without thinking this through, you see," she said, taking another sip of tea. "I watched the papers, trying to figure out what story to concoct. My plan was to plant a false trail, to give you more time, but I needed do it right. Then one day, I saw a story about a tragedy at sea. A passenger ship going from Le Havre to Montréal, Canada had collided with another vessel. That is the ship I put the Opera Ghost on. He died a gentleman, as I said. According to several witnesses, he gave up a seat on the lifeboat to a woman and her three children. Very noble. Very self sacrificing."

"Ha! Not at all like I am." Erik tried to suppress the grin on his face, but wasn't successful. "I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry, Madame."

"Nonsense. Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. If we were on a sinking ship, would you not give me your seat on the lifeboat?"

Erik paused as if pondering the question. "I'll have to think about it. What time of year is it? How far are we from shore?"

She rewarded him with a hearty laugh, and raised her cup towards him in a mock toast. "To old friends."

He nodded in acknowledgement, and sipped his tea thoughtfully while she studied him.

"Well," said Hélène. "Stop beating around the bush. I know you're curious, even if she is the last person on your mind these days."

An expression of pained innocence played across Erik's face. "I have no idea what you mean." He saw she wasn't accepting his protestations. "Very well, I admit it. I am curious. How is Christine these days? Is she…well?"

"Exceedingly so. She and Raoul are happily married and the proud parents of two children—both boys—with another on the way."

Erik sneered and mumbled something that sound like, "Breeders."

Hélène raised an elegant eyebrow. "What was that?"

Erik felt his cheeks burn, not realizing he had spoken the word out loud. "I said, she'll never return to the stage, will she?"

She rose from her chair and walked over to him, placing a motherly hand upon his shoulder.

He fixed his gaze on a small wedding portrait of Christine and Raoul that graced the mantelpiece. "It was my dream, not hers. All that effort, and for naught."

"It was a good dream, Erik. The wrong person, but the right dream."

"You're not talking about the stage, are you?"

She shook her head. "You deserve some happiness."

"I don't deserve it, but that's not going to keep me from trying to find it."

"That's my boy."

Erik chuckled. "Is that how you think of me, as your boy?"

"More like an older sister looking out for a mischievous younger brother."

Such expressions of tenderness made Erik uneasy, and he changed the subject. "Speaking of children, how is Meg doing these days? Has she become the prima ballerina yet?"

"Oh, Meg? She's retired from the stage as well."

"Hmm…they're all dropping like flies."

"You are in a strange mood, but I'll ignore it for now," she said, pleased to see that Erik's sardonic sense of humor hadn't left him. "As for Meg? She's married. A good catch, too—she's a baroness."

"And you continue to live here?" He regretted his brash comment when he saw her bristle.

"It suits me. I wasn't made to live in grand houses with servants waiting on me, hand and foot. I prefer this old place—and my privacy."

"What about the other thing? You know—the money."

"The rest of your ill-gotten booty? Oh, you needn't worry. I found it, right where you said it would be, and did as you asked. All taken care of—an anonymous donor has set up an annuity for retired members of the Opera Populaire. And even after paying the owners for their losses, there's some left over."

"Keep it."

"I intend to. Think of it as my fee. By the way, why are you doing this? Trying to buy your way to forgiveness?"

"No. Only trying to live with myself."

She nodded approvingly. "That's a good answer."

She returned to her seat, her taffeta skirt shushing as she walked, reminding Erik of leaves rustling in the breeze. "Perhaps this evening, we can take a stroll by the new Populaire so you can see the ostentatious edifice your funds helped to rebuild. In the meantime, I want to hear all about your life—what you've been up to, people you've met, what you do for a living. And don't spare any details. I want to hear it all."

-0-0-0-

Parting with Helene had been more difficult than he had expected. It had been good to see her, to find that she not only didn't hate him, but seemed fond of him.

_At least someone in Paris likes me_, he said to himself.

From Paris, Erik took the boat train to London. When he arrived, he wired Professor Cutteridge as the man had requested. Two days later, he found himself in Burford.

At the station, he found a sixty-something year old man waiting for him. Erik grimaced.

_Professor Cutteridge, I presume?_

The professor was of modest height with slightly stooped shoulders—_No doubt from pouring over all those books_, Erik thought—and a bit of a paunch. His hair was curly and thick, more white than brown, and he sported a luxuriant pair of dundrearies—long sideburns worn with a clean-shaven chin. Myopic brown eyes made the man look as if he were squinting, because he seldom remembered to wear his wire-rimmed glasses that were usually to be found on the top of his head. Sturdy walking shoes and a wool cap spoke of country sensibilities, and he carried a blackthorn walking stick for good measure. His mode of dress was out-of-date but in good order. For all appearances, Professor Cutteridge gave the impression of an eminently practical man, right down to his tweed jacket. A small terrier of the breed familiarly as a Jack Russell barked merrily and ran circles around him while he waited, watching the crowd for his guest.

Erik made a face, knowing he would not be difficult to pick out of the crowd. He was the only one bearing luggage with stamps from Egypt plastered all over the sides—and wearing a mask.

At first impression, Alpheus may have looked like a doddering old professor, but as Erik got closer he could see that the man's eyes sparkled with intelligence.

"You must be Mr. Rien."

"And you must be Professor Cutteridge," Erik replied with a nod.

"How does one thank the man who saved his daughter's life?" Alpheus extended his hand in the age-old gesture of friendship.

Erik returned the handshake with a firm grip, and looked directly into Cutteridge's eyes as they clasped hands. "She saved mine as well," he said. The two of them stood on the station platform for several moments, each taking measure of the other and approving of what he saw.

The Professor pointed to the colorful stamps on Erik's valise. "Scorpions, cutthroats, pyrotechnics. Gad, sir, how I miss Egypt."

Erik chuckled at the unexpected humor, his laughter a vibrant, charming note that reached right into one's soul and made it glad. "You must come and visit my home in Luxor someday," he said without thinking.

Cutteridge blinked in surprise.

Erik let out a sigh. "That is, if Elizabeth doesn't kill me first."

Now it was Cutteridge's turn to laugh. "I hardly think that will be the case, m'boy." He slapped Erik on the back good-naturedly. "She'll kill me first, for inviting you here without telling her."

Erik felt the earth spin underneath his feet. "You mean, she isn't expecting me?" he stammered.

"Come. We must hurry. We have a walk ahead of us."

Erik pointed to the trunk behind him. "My luggage."

"There's plenty of room for it in the dog cart. It can ride in the back with Min." He patted the dog on the head and spoke to it in gibberish, slipping his hand into his pocket and giving the dog a treat. The dog responded with an enthusiastic series of barks, tail wagging, and insistence on having its ears scratched.

"Min?" Erik choked.

Alpheus cleared his throat. "It's Elizabeth's little joke. It's short for Miniature Dog. He may be small in stature, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in orneriness. Watch out for him, M'sieur. He's a devil, he is, and he won't be too keen on your sleeping in his bed."

_Ah. The punishment begins. I'm to sleep in the dog's bed. I've slept in worse places._

Erik squared his shoulders and set off in pursuit of Alpheus Cutteridge, wondering why he hadn't pretended that the invitation had been lost at sea.

-0-0-0-


	35. Reunion

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 35  
Reunion**

"_Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind."  
_~William Shakespeare

Elizabeth sat alone in front of the fireplace in her room, and opened Erik's sketchbook one more time. She stared at his self-portrait, and ran her finger along the drawing, pausing over the scarf that covered most of his face. His intense, aquamarine eyes stared back at her, as if willing her to remember his words, _Rapellez-vous moi. _

_Oh, Erik, _she thought_. I shall never forget you. _She closed the book and clutched it to her chest as the tears began to flow.

"Oh, Elizabeth!" Her aunt's sing-song voice echoed down the hall. "We've work to do."

She stuffed the book in a dresser drawer and quickly dashed water on her face, dabbing it dry while trying to erase the signs of her tears. "I'll be right there," she called out. She brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt with her hands, checked how she looked in the mirror and, forcing a smile on her face, headed out the door. A few minutes later, the two women were busy cleaning the bedrooms.

There were four rooms altogether—her father's, Aunt Millicent's room, her own room, and a spare bedroom that used to be Aunt Drusilla's. Activity was what she needed to keep her mind off of Erik, and she threw herself whole heartedly into dusting, changing linens and generally sprucing things up. The previous day, Professor Cutteridge had announced at the supper table that a guest would be arriving the next day, one who would be staying with them for a while.

When questioned as to person's identity, Alpheus would say nothing. Instead, his mouth curled into a silent smirk. Elizabeth knew from past experience that the man could be intractable when he chose to remain secretive. She pleaded. She cajoled. She implored, but her father's lips remained sealed. At last, she had given up.

"You can be as stubborn as a mule," she'd said to him. When all he would do was grin back at her, she added, "As long as it isn't a Brackenstall," and gave up.

Between Erik's letter and her father's antics, she felt pulled in a thousand directions, and so she forced herself to attend the task at hand. Housework, drudgery though it may be, provided a diversion. Anything, to keep her mind off him…anything.

"So, tell me all about Aunt Dru's romance," said Elizabeth, who was dusting the furniture and putting out clean doilies while her aunt tended to the bed. "You said the last you heard, she and her new husband were in Naples?"

"Yes. It looks as though the two of them are going to take the year to make their own grand tour."

"I admit that Aunt Drusilla getting married is the last thing I ever expected. I know what you wrote in your letters, but I'm sure there is more. When and how did they meet?"

Millicent pulled off pillowcases, plumping the feather before stuffing the pillows into fresh, clean cases. "It happened at a local dance held here during this past winter season, while you were in Egypt. Sister Drusilla, at the ripe old age of 52, fell in love with a new neighbor. He's a very admirable sort by the name of Colonel St. John Markham, retired. He bought himself a cottage in Minster Lovell. It was love at first sight, as the saying goes. Each saw the other across the room, and that was that."

"What do you think of him."

Aunt Millicent giggled. "Well now, he's tallish with salt-and-pepper hair, and that erect military bearing? It's enough to make my old heart go pitty-pat."

Talking about Aunt Drusilla's romance was the perfect tonic, and Elizabeth snickered as she removed the old sheets and started putting the fresh ones on the bed. "You always did have a soft spot in your heart for a man in uniform," she said, giving her aunt a sly look. "At least with Aunt Dru gone, it leaves this spare bedroom available for father's mysterious visitor." She leaned over. "You don't happen to know who it is, do you?"

Aunt Millicent puttered around with the feather duster, looking suspiciously guilty about something. "No dear, your father hasn't said a word to me."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're hiding something from me?"

"Haven't the foggiest, but while we're on the subject of romance and marriage, Bethie dear, you must stop dressing like such a fuddy-duddy."

Elizabeth made a negative gesture. "I am in mourning, or have you forgotten."

Aunt Millicent sniffed disdainfully. "Oh pish-posh! Just because you're in mourning doesn't mean you have to look like something the cat dragged in. Look at your hair! Why are you pulling it back like that? Makes you look like an old woman. And at least consider wearng lavender instead of that awful gray. Lavender is much more flattering. The gray drains all the color from your face.

"I said—"

"Yes. Yes. You're in mourning. But you won't be in mourning forever. Or are you planning on emulating our queen?" Millicent rolled her eyes, demonstrating her opinion of Victoria Regina's perpetual mourning for her consort, Prince Albert, who had died back in 1861. "You keep this up, and you'll never catch a husband."

She shrugged. "Why should I remarry? Besides, you never married."

"Me?" Millicent laughed and winked. "I have too much sense to settle for marriage. Why limit myself to one man, when there are so many at my beck and call, eh?"

"You're awful," she said with a snigger at Millicent's bold talk.

"You're the one who likes to cleave to one man only, dearie. That is much too confining for my tastes."

"Stop it!" Elizabeth said, now giggling uncontrollably. "You'll have me in stitches and we'll never get these rooms cleaned! Anyone would think you are a...a loose woman, listening to you!"

"If I were a few years younger, Elizabeth—but I suppose we'd best leave that avenue unexplored for now. What I want to know is more about that friend of yours in Egypt. What was his name?"

"Erik," she said, the sadness she'd been battling returning. She sat on the edge of the bed. "That is one man who has most definitely taken himself off the market."

"Sounds to me like you're still very much interested," he aunt said, joining her. "What's he like? Is he handsome?"

"Yes…and no. He would be the handsomest man in the world if not for his face."

"Blemished?"

"Worse than that. He was born with a terrible deformity that left him with a face that is half angel, and half demon."

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes, it's bad, but like anything, once you get used to the person—especially if he is someone you care about—you get used to it, even learn to accept it."

"You love him?"

Elizabeth grew pensive. "I—I'm not sure."

"What kind of nonsense is that? You either love the man, or you don't. Now, which is it?"

"But…Aunt Millie! Leo's only been dead for six months. What kind of woman would I be, to forget my husband so quickly…?"

"No one can choose when we will love. No one expects you to forget your husband, but you must remember that up from the ashes, the roses of love grow."

"That sounds terribly trite." She became thoughtful. "Aunt Millie, may I tell you something…secret?"

Millicent leaned closer. "You know you can always come to me. Now, what is this all about?"

"It's…it's a dream I once had, and it still haunts me. I had it one night while sailing down the Nile. We were on our way to Amarna, to search for Leo. At the time, I thought he was still alive, but when I went to sleep, I dreamt of Erik."

Aunt Millicent took her niece's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "It's not unusual to dream about someone else, especially if the two of you are living in close quarters."

"Not _this _kind of dream." Elizabeth's face flushed as she remembered it in vivid detail. "I…" she started to sputter. "I dreamt I was back in Ancient Egypt…with Erik. He…he was a demigod and I was his…his…" Her face turned a vibrant shade of red as she recalled the details of the dream. "His love slave," she finally whispered.

"Oh dear!" Her aunt clapped her hands together like a gleeful child. "And was he dressed in only his loin cloth, like in those Egyptian statuettes your father has in his study?"

Elizabeth's embarrassment only deepened. "Really! This isn't funny, it's…it's…awful! My husband was lying dead in an abandoned tomb, and I was…was dreaming…"

Millicent clucked sympathetically. "Let's be honest, Bethie. You and Leo liked each other well enough, but there was never any spark between the two of you; no passion. About the only thing the two of you had in common was Egypt, and even there you each had your own aspirations. Your recent misadventures should serve as a reminder that life is fragile and can be taken from us at any moment. You mustn't spend your days worrying about what others will think, but rather about how you will feel if you don't go after that man of yours"

"But…but I never told Erik that I love him!" Elizabeth started to sniff and dabbed her eyes with the edge of her apron. "That's why he wrote that letter to me, trying to be noble. Before I left Egypt, he told me…he bared his heart to me…and I…I…didn't even acknowledge him. I…couldn't…didn't…oh, I made such a mess of it!" She couldn't finish what she wanted to say and started to cry.

"Now. Now," her aunt said, comfortingly. "It's not the end of the world."

"B-but…" Elizabeth gestured helplessly.

"Hush, child. It's never too late." She put her arms around her niece and patted her on the top of the head, soothing her in the way she had when Elizabeth was a child. When the sobbing had subsided, she stood up, smoothed her skirts, and excused herself.

"Mark my words, dear heart. You'll find a way to rectify this—if that is what you truly wish." She winked and cocked her head to the side. "Now, I have some work to do in the kitchen. You finish up in here, and join me downstairs after you've dried your tears."

As she headed down the hall, Millicent grinned to herself. "There," she said under her breath. "I've done my job, softened her up. Now, all we have to do is wait for Alpheus to bring her young man here." She quickly glanced over her shoulder, towards the room Elizabeth was working in. "But I'm beginning to wonder if the dear girl will hold out until he arrives. Poor thing is lovesick, even if she won't admit it."

-0-0-0-

When they arrived at the cottage, the two men entered by way of the back door. Alpheus checked the main floor. Neither woman was around. This was good. He and Erik could skip into the study and talk a bit before he broke the news to his daughter.

"You must be ready to stretch your legs after that long train ride, yes?"

The wary visitor shrugged and shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you. Shouldn't you let Elizabeth know I have arrived?"

Alpheus ignored him. "First, let's have a drink. We'll take care of your luggage later," he insisted.

Erik followed his host into the house, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the lintel. The ceiling was far lower than comfortable for a man of his height, and he was keenly aware that Cutteridge watched him as he took in the surroundings. He wiped his hands on his thighs nervously.

"Welcome to my home, son. Mind the doorways, or you'll end up with a goose egg on your noggin." Alpheus chuckled as he tapped his temple and smiled warmly at his guest.

Erik did not smile in return; there was nothing funny about his situation. He was as stiff and as grim as a condemned man being led to his execution. He declined a small glass of sherry, and stood ramrod straight in the center of the room, taking inventory of the bits and pieces of Egyptian pottery and sculpture, mementos of past digs that filled the shelves. His brow creased when he came across something familiar. There, in a frame made of rough-hewn wood, was the sketch Elizabeth had made aboard the _Eye of Horus_, when he had taught her to draw.

"She kept this," he muttered.

"Yes. She speaks of it often—and of you. That is, until recently." Alpheus frowned and took a sip of his sherry while Erik chewed the inside of his cheek, fretting inwardly.

Soft footsteps and the rustle of skirts announced the approach of a woman. Erik focused on the door and squared his shoulders. He held his hands behind his back, one cradled in the other, and squared his shoulders as though ready for the firing squad. His apprehension filled the room like a black cloud.

"Father, Aunt Millicent and I—"

She halted, noticing another man in the room with her father. Whoever he was, he was handsome, with dark hair, broad shoulders, and a trim waist. He was dressed in the latest fashion and his clothes exquisitely tailored. There was something vaguely familiar about his aquamarine eyes, his stature, his bearing. Then she noticed the flesh-colored mask that covered the right side of his face.

She froze in place. The room started to spin around her, and for several seconds, she felt as though she might faint.

"I…I…" she managed to croak out.

Erik bowed his head slightly in greeting. "Hello, Elizabeth," he said, his voice sweeping over her like velvet drapery, enveloping her, caressing her.

She felt herself rock slightly on her feet, and she put her hand to her stomach to quell the butterflies that had erupted down there. Before she knew it, Erik was at her side, guiding her to a chair.

"My apologies," he said, still holding her hand, reluctant to release it. "Your father warned me at the station that he hadn't told you I was coming to Burford."

She sat stock still, unable to move. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear nothing else. At last, she found her voice. "Hello, Erik," she said, her voice trembling.

He knelt on the floor on one knee beside her chair and leaned closer to her, his voice low and melodic. He took in her appearance, her hair done up in a severe bun, her widow's weeds showing that she was still in mourning. "If you wish, I shall leave at once. I am truly sorry, Elizabeth. I did not mean to…intrude."

She cleared her throat. "Please don't go. I am happy to see you, Erik." She looked into his eyes, those beautiful eyes the color of the sea, and her heart beat faster. With a will of its own, her hand rose towards his face, her fingertips brushing the mask.

He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but it did not come. Instead of ripping away his mask, Elizabeth let her hand cup his terrible cheek momentarily before continuing upwards to the smooth black hair that she knew was a wig.

"What's this?" she whispered, as though trying to comprehend the drastic change in his appearance. How she wanted to touch his true hair, and brush the shock of it away from his forehead as she had done when he was ill months ago. "Where is my sheik?" she asked, finding her sense of humor once again. "My hero of the desert?" She leaned closer to him, grinning mischievously.

To Erik, she was altogether beguiling. He chuckled softly. "I was afraid he would attract too much attention." He brushed his hands down his sides, indicating his traveling clothes. "This much more suited to the Continent than a nomad's robes and a turban is."

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining brightly. Then, as quickly as it had come, the playful mood was gone and her face was stern.

At that moment, Millicent swept into the room, bubbling with excitement. "So this is the young man we've heard so much about! Welcome to our home, Mr. Rien," she said cheerfully, extending her hand. She ignored the look Elizabeth shot her, silently acknowledging that she had known the identity of the mysterious visitor all along.

Erik stood and responded with a courteous nod, accepting the elder lady's hand. "Please, Madame. Call me Erik." He was surprised when she pulled him closer.

"And you must call me Millie." She smiled charmingly, benignly, as only a kindly aunt can. "You must be tired after your long journey. We have a lovely room waiting for you, with a precious little fire burning merrily in the hearth to keep you toasty warm." She glanced at Elizabeth. "There seems to be an unseasonable chill in the air." She lowered her voice and drew Erik towards her. "You know, Elizabeth made up the bed herself only moments ago, using our very best linens." She arched an eyebrow conspiratorially as she took his arm and led him towards the stairs. "Come right this way, Erik, and let me show you the rest of the house."

Erik glanced over his shoulder as he was hauled away, silently pleading for rescue, doomed to a fate worse than death – being the captive of Elizabeth's famous Aunt Millie.

Elizabeth stared back at him, her expression informing him that he was on his own.

Alpheus handed Elizabeth a sherry. He grunted when she tossed the whole glass down in one gulp, and saw her grimace as the liquid burned her throat all the way down. When Millicent and Erik were out of earshot, he ventured to say, "Don't take it out on him. He had no idea until he arrived that you didn't know he'd been invited." When she did not reply, he forged onwards. "I thought I might need to use force to get that stubborn Frenchy through the door. What did you do in Egypt—put the fear of God into him?"

She glared at him before standing slowly. She looked him in the eye and vowed, "I shall never forgive you for this, Father." She reached up and removed a comb from her hair, shaking her long brown tresses free. "And now, you will excuse me. I must check on our supper." He listened as she retreated to the kitchen.

Alpheus helped himself to a glass of sherry. "She's probably slipping eye of newt into mine at this very moment," he said to himself as he took a sip. Of that, he was certain of it.

-0-0-0-

Aunt Millicent went out of her way to make Erik feel welcome, and he in turn responded to her efforts with charm. Min, the terrier—or terrorizer, as Millie liked to call him—attached himself to Erik from the start. After informing their guest that supper would be served in an hour, Millicent left him alone in his room, but Min scampered under the bed and refused to come out—until Erik sat down. Instantly, the dog was in his lap, demanding a belly-rub.

"Thank you for sharing your bed with me, little one," Erik said as he stroked the dog's belly, at last understanding the earlier remark about sharing the dog's bed. It was obvious that Min considered the bed, and all the furniture, to be his. "I am truly honored," Erik said with a chuckle and the dog nuzzled his hand, demanding more attention. "Just don't hog the covers." Min cocked his head to one side, as if requesting an explanation. "I have been in Egypt long enough that these English nights feel very cold."

In reply, the dog jumped up on the bed, circled around two or three times, and made himself at home atop the pillows, daring Erik to chase him away.

-0-0-0-

When he agreed to eat with the family, Erik knew he was taking a big step but he felt he had no choice. How would he explain refusing to take meals with his hosts? It wasn't the mask itself; with only a half-mask, it wasn't as if it would get in the way. It was the idea that he could not, or should not, eat in public that went back to his years with the gypsies. How many times had he been berated for showing his face for other than performances? Hadn't he been told over and over that he wasn't fit to eat with the animals? He forced himself to relax and accept that this was another vestige of his past that needed to finally be thrown out with the trash. Even the recent acceptance by Safa, A'aqil and old Talibah weren't enough to completely erase old habits.

Time and time again he had heard that his appearance was nauseating, that the very sight of him was enough to turn a starving dog off its food. It was hyperbole, but it was still painful to recall that at one time in his life, he was not welcome at any table, much less one surrounded by gentle folk.

Would he ever shed the apprehension, the fear that something as seemingly innocent as sharing a family meal could turn into yet another embarrassment? He shook his head, thinking himself foolish for worrying that these people could harm him in any way. Still, if he let himself think about it long enough, he would be bolting out the door and catching the first train back to his lair.

With leaden footsteps, he forced himself to join the family at the table. Even if he could not eat well, he would make a show of it. If there was anything he knew how to do, it was to deceive people into believing what he wanted them to believe.

When Erik had come downstairs, so had the dog, following faithfully at Erik's heels. When Erik sat, the dog sat on the floor next to him, his large brown eyes staring up expectantly. In this case, Min would prove quite helpful. For once, it was good to have a dog silently begging at the table. Food would disappear, and it would appear as if Erik were eating. And, if Min played along, no one would be the wiser. He glanced down at the dog, its pleading eyes silently begging for a handout, its tiny tail wagging so fast it blurred before his eyes. Yes, Min would make an excellent accomplice.

In retrospect, Erik realized that he needn't have been overly concerned about the mask. With British reserve and the manners of the intelligent aristocracy, the Cutteridges would not have considered making him feel ill at ease, especially not as a guest in their home. They politely ignored the mask and avoided monitoring Erik's dining habits. Since they were not overly attentive, he found himself relaxing at supper and able to take small bites, chew them, and swallow them, much like any other man. Far worse than taking nourishment in the presence of strangers was sitting at the table with Elizabeth. After her initial welcome, she barely acknowledged his existence.

Although he realized that he could never hope to recapture the warmth and affection they had shared in Egypt, he thought perhaps she might not hate him. But, supper nearly finished, Elizabeth had not looked in his direction one time. She had responded woodenly when he held her chair for her, causing Aunt Millie to jump in front of her and make a show of her appreciation for Erik's thoughtfulness. Millie's eagerness only emphasized Elizabeth's reticence.

He had began to despair, thinking the trip was a waste of time, when Millie jostled his arm. "Elizabeth told us you enjoyed lamb," she was saying.

He nodded, and spoke in unaccented English. "This is true. But you have prepared it in a way I have not tasted in many years."

Elizabeth sipped her water. "What he means," she said pointedly, "is that it is quite bland in comparison to Safa's cooking."

Millie clapped her hands. "Safa! Oh, the dear little Nubian girl. Your sketch of her is absolutely breathtaking! Please tell us how she is! Tell me, Erik. Did she marry that dashing dervish?"

Erik blinked, momentarily confused, before he caught on. "Safa and Ra'id were married the day the, uhm, the letter arrived. The one inviting me to visit you."

He stole a glance at Elizabeth, who had sat across from him all evening with a vapid smile plastered on her face. The mention of Safa, however, brought her to life. "She wanted to wait for you," he said softly, "but she and Ra'id were…anxious to be married. As the weeks turned into months…." He shrugged, as if to convey the message that Safa and Raid's love could not be put on hold while Elizabeth sorted out her feelings. "'The Sitt will understand,' she said. 'The Sitt knows that we must not waste today thinking about yesterday.' Her aunties came for the wedding. In fact, I think the whole village came. They are probably still there, setting up house in my courtyard."

Millicent giggled like a schoolgirl. Alpheus snorted and stood, rocking on his feet. He put his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. "And on that note," he said, stretching, "we men shall retire to the study."

Erik cleared his throat. "I don't smoke or drink hard liquor." He saw the faces looking at him, realizing it as unusual for a gentleman not to smoke or drink. "Bad for the voice," he added. His voice faded away as Alpheus took him into the study, leaving the women to clean up. Millicent gathered the dirty dishes while, in the kitchen, Elizabeth began to heat water for washing them.

"Beth, dear, you don't need to explain about having those dreams anymore!" Millicent fanned herself with her hand, pretending to be succumbing to "the vapors." She slumped against the wall. "He has that allure Frenchmen always seem to have, that _je ne sais quoi_, and he knows how to use it. I'm surprised women didn't waylay him en route from Luxor. Goodness knows, if I'd had the chance for a man like him when I was a young woman—"

"Aunt Millie, stop carrying on so. Besides, Erik wouldn't know _allure_ from—" she searched for the right word. "—from _manure_. He doesn't believe himself attractive. It's his face; he is very self-conscious. All his life, it has determined how society has treated him." She scrubbed the dishes furiously, as though they were the offending parties.

"Dash society. He is not interested in how society treats him, not anymore. There's only one person he cares about, and that is you." She took Elizabeth by the shoulders and turned her face-to-face. "Ask yourself this, young lady. What if he were to slip away tonight, and hurry back to Luxor where he is loved? How would you feel then, child?"

Doubt crossed her mind. She wiped her hands on her apron and wrapped her arms around her aunt.

-0-0-0-

Alpheus enjoyed his port, and he had a fine selection to offer the rare guest who visited him in the Cotswolds. After his second, he was feeling warm, relaxed, and comfortable. Very comfortable indeed. He stared at Erik, taking in the imposing figure, the muscled frame, and most of all, the mask. "Why do you wear that mask?" he blurted out. "Were you wounded in the war?"

Erik was briefly taken aback, but recovered quickly. Eventually, everyone wanted to know about the mask. It had always been thus, and thus it would ever be. He was only surprised that Elizabeth hadn't told her father about _it_, every excruciating detail of _it_. He steeled himself, his every nerve on edge, but by all appearances, he was calm and collected.

"No," he said simply. He put his hand to his cheek. "I was born this way." His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, and he closed his eyes. "It is not superficial. The mask covers a defect that is…well, you can not imagine how terrible it is. It is…that is, I am really quite horrible, but if you must see…." He began to take off the mask. His hands trembled as he gripped the sides of it.

Shame and self-recrimination overwhelmed the Professor. "No…don't. I'm terribly sorry. Don't know what got into me."

"Better to ask, than to stare," he suggested. "Besides, everyone is curious. I'm used to it." He paused momentarily before adding, "Elizabeth has seen my face. I have kept nothing from her."

That seemed to satisfy Alpheus. Still embarrassed at his _faux pas_, he decided it was time to change the subject. "Let me say again how pleased I am that you have come here, Erik."

"May I ask, sir, how much of my letter your daughter shared with you?" Erik inquired. If she had not told him of the mask, what else had she kept secret?

"Share with me? Why, Mr. Rien, she told me nothing." He glanced at the liquor cabinet. "You sure you don't want something stronger to drink? Very well, but I believe I'll pour one for m'self. Now then, where was I? Oh, yes. She crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire. But a father knows. You'll understand what I mean one day when you have children of your own." He ignored Erik's cough. "What I want to know is why you broke it off with Bethie?"

"Then…she didn't tell you? There was nothing to break off. She and I were merely…friends. Nothing more. Not that I wouldn't have welcomed her attention, but she's a proper gentlewoman and would not disgrace her husband's memory by encouraging the likes of me"

"No. The girl's as stubborn as a mule sometimes, filled with that 'stiff upper lip' foolishness. Don't know where she gets it," he said with a wink as he took his seat. "So, I want _you _to tell me—what in the devil is going on? From the time she came home, all I ever heard her talk about was Erik Rien this, and Erik Rien that. Why, it was like the sun rose and set around you! You were the center of her universe! Then, this letter, and she goes all to pieces. By gad, just what is going on?"

"I…I was only thinking of your daughter. You see…my past record is far from stellar."

"Hmph!"

"It's true. I have committed a number of…less than honorable deeds."

Alpheus seemed to consider this. "Does Bethie know?"

"Yes, sir. As I said, I've told her everything."

Alpheus rubbed his chin. "I see," he said. "So, you are telling me that you are a scoundrel? A charlatan? A mountebank?"

"I…I…yes. That is, I was. All that, and more." He balled his hands into fists but kept his arms straight at his sides. "I am not proud of it."

"Do I need to worry about constables banging my door down in the middle of the night, hauling you off in chains?"

Erik managed a grin. "No, sir. I've mended my ways, atoned as best I could. But a woman like Elizabeth deserves better than a man with a checkered past. If you knew me..."

Cutteridge interrupted, "But I _do_ know you. I may not know the man you were, but I know the man you are today. More importantly, my daughter loves you." He paused, taking note of the affect of this news on his guest. Erik lurched towards a chair and slumped in it. Gently, Alpheus continued. "She could not love a man who was not deserving. Surely you know that by now." The old professor grunted out a harrumph. "Your colorful past didn't stop you from coming all the way from Egypt when I wrote you."

"I care for Elizabeth, but you're right," admitted Erik, dejectedly. "I shouldn't have come."

"Hmm…perhaps I misjudged you. After all, as a Cutteridge, I—and my daughter—come from an illustrious lineage. Unlike those upstart Brackenstalls, the Cutteridges were here long before the Norman Conquest. The name Cutteridge in fact is from the Old Saxon tongue and there are some scholars who suggest that it goes back to the sixth-century Prince Cutha of Wessex. Over the generations, our family has produced many memorable personages. As I recall, there were several Saxon marauders, and in more recent times, at least two horse thieves and an ancestor who nearly ended up on the wrong side of a noose for plying his trade."

Erik forced back a chuckle. "And what trade might that have been?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued in spite of his pretense to the contrary.

"Why, dear boy, he was the famous, or infamous, Black Jack Cutteridge, greatest highwayman these parts ever saw—until he saw the light and settled down to a life of genteel and respectable farmer."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Now, you are pulling my leg."

"I most certainly am not!" protested the professor, humor in his eyes. "Black Jack Cutteridge, in addition to being an infamous highwayman, cut quite a handsome figure. Caught more 'an one lady's eye. Yes, indeed. The women were said to have traveled the roads alone just so's they could be held up by Black Jack. But the law caught up with him at last, and Black Jack was set for a neck stretchin'…when a local lady, a woman of good repute, spoke up for 'im. Begged the judge to spare his life, as Jack was the father of her unborn babe. Jack hadn't realized that his affairs of the heart had left the poor girl in such a condition, and promised the judge that if his life were spared, he – Black Jack Cutteridge – would swear off his wicked ways, marry the girl and live a good and proper life."

Erik sniggered. "And I'm supposed to believe this story?"

"Well now, I wasn't there to witness these events, but my grandfather assured me that this is all true as _his _father was Black Jack Cutteridge. But my point is this. While the Brackenstalls prefer to look down their long noses at someone with a history such as yours, the Cutteridges are much more amenable to overlooking past mistakes and give a fellow a second chance."

"Perhaps that's why Elizabeth tolerates me. I remind her, in some way, of her infamous ancestor."

"Infamy be damned. You remind her of what romance is supposed to be like," the professor said with a wink. "Take her for a long walk, young man, and show her how you feel about her. If she's willin' to overlook certain things, I guess that's all that important now, isn't it."

-0-0-0-

Soon, the evening chores were done, and Elizabeth and Millicent retired to the parlor to await the men. Elizabeth had sloshed dishwater on her dress, necessitating a change of wardrobe. Gone was the somber black dress that she'd brought with her from Egypt. In its place was a lavender frock that, as Millicent had promised, brought out the color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes—or was it something else that made her glow?

The two of them made a sophisticated pretense of casual elegance. Elizabeth stabbed her needle into her embroidery, cursing when she missed her mark and drew blood. Millicent tsked and fussed over her, saying, "Take my book—it's Mrs. Browning's poetry—and give me your work At least you won't hurt yourself, and you may learn something while you're at it."

She straightened her skirts and waved her book at Elizabeth when she heard the men heading towards the parlor. "Beth!" she admonished. "Sit up straight. And relax! You look as though you've swallowed a fly."

Elizabeth glowered at her aunt as the men arrived. Erik, mistaking Elizabeth's ire as being directed at himself, hesitated at the threshold. Min, excited to have his partner in food crimes rejoin them, barked his fool head off and hurled his whole body at Erik until the man went into the room and stood near the fireplace.

"He wants to sit in your lap," Millicent explained patiently. "He thinks that's what people are for – to give him soft, warm place to sleep whenever he wants." She rolled her eyes and stared daggers at Alpheus. "Can't imagine who taught him such nonsense."

Stepping around the dog, Erik walked over to the piano forte, a square grand that rested against the wall near Beth's chair. "May I?" he asked, and with Millicent's encouragement, he seated himself and began to play. He played selections from the great masters Beth had read about in the books Erik gave her to read on the long, sad voyage back to England six months earlier. Millicent and Alpheus applauded enthusiastically, but Beth ignored him, affecting a disinterested air.

She carried it off quite well until Erik began playing his variations on familiar folksongs. How dare he! He knew they were a weakness of hers. He'd known it ever since that night…the night he'd played for her until his fingers bled. She lay her needlework aside, arose quickly, and prepared to say her good-nights.

This was his chance, and he seized it, switching to the melody of an English traditional known as _Greensleeves_. His voice! That glorious voice which had enveloped her time and time again in Egypt. It wrapped around her like a glove, penetrating deep within her soul.

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong,  
To cast me off discourteously.  
For I have loved you well and long,  
Delighting in your company.  
_

_Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my lady greensleeves._

_Your vows you've broken, like my heart,  
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?  
Now I remain in a world apart  
But my heart remains in captivity._

This time, she joined him in the chorus, her tremulous vocals carried on his strong and sure song, but she fell silent when he came to the refrain:

_I have been ready at your hand,  
To grant whatever you would crave,  
I have both wagered life and land,  
Your love and good-will for to have._

She slid onto the bench beside him, and joined her voice with his, singing more confidently now, encouraged by his eager acceptance. She moved her hands automatically to the keys, taking over the melody while Erik improvised harmony. She allowed her hand to brush against his, and she felt a stirring in her soul as she sang the chorus with him.

He abandoned all pretense of playing, choosing to watch her instead and to plead his case through song. How could he play, with her so near? With her looking radiant, as she did at that moment?

_If you intend thus to disdain,  
It does the more enrapture me,  
And even so, I still remain  
A lover in captivity._

Her hands fell from the keyboard, and held on fast to his. They didn't even notice when Alpheus and Millicent slipped out the room, Min in tow, allowing them time alone. Erik's voice, always perfect, always true, betrayed him on the last verse. She heard the crack as he sang the word _adieu_, and thought her heart was breaking.

_Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,  
To God I pray to prosper thee,  
For I am still thy lover true,  
Come once again and love me._

He lifted her hand to his bowed head and nuzzled it against his lips, kissing the back of her hand softly, as gently as a butterfly's wing. His shoulders shook as he wept. A single teardrop fell and she caught it with her fingers.

"Why," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "why did you come here?"

-0-0-0-

She hadn't realized she had also begun to cry until he wiped away her tears with the back of his fingers…long, elegant fingers that left her craving his touch.

His shoulders rose and fell and his eyes pleaded understanding. "Hopeless optimism?" he suggested. And then, convinced of his failure, he said, "The truth is, I am unscrupulous. I am not worthy to be in the same room as good people."

"Nothing could be further from the truth! The truth is," she said, repeating his words, "you are eaten up with shame. You are filled with remorse! You have punished yourself far worse than any court of law."

He shook his head sadly. "If only that were true."

"Then why did you come here? Look at me, Erik." She spoke slowly, softly, and waited until he acknowledged her before continuing. "What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?"

"I…I couldn't stay away. God forgive me, but I could not stay away." He reached for her, but let his hands drop, empty.

Elizabeth took his hands and held them tight. "Was there something you wanted to say to me?"

"I wanted to say…I needed to say…that I am sorry." He started by speaking slowly, carefully, but now the words were spilling out of him. He could hold back no longer. He stood and paced, agitated and distraught. "I can't believe you can stand to look at me, knowing what I am…to have me here in your home…"

"There is no place I would rather have you, Erik, than here with me."

"…in your home, where you're safe, with your family, your loved ones." He glanced up at her. "Please believe me. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'll be on my way tomorrow at first light."

She stood in front of him and spoke softly, sympathetically. "You're rambling. Sit a moment by the fire – with me – and let's talk."

They sat silently on the rug in front of the fire for almost an hour, watching the flames rise and fall, listing to the hiss of an occasional bit of fatwood catching aflame. They grew comfortable with one another in the solitude, each lost in thought. Perhaps they were remembering moments spent by the campfire in the desert, as well as watching the stars together, getting to know each other. A stolen kiss….

The room was very quiet when Erik whispered, "I…thought I would die when you left me."

"I didn't leave you," she reminded him. "I told you I'd be back. After all I had been through, I needed some time to myself. And if anyone did any leaving, it was you who left me! Sending me that ridiculous letter."

"Well…I've come back to you," he said quietly, trying to hide his shame.

"Why?"

"Because I…"

_Dammit! Now is not the time to hold back. Tell her how you really feel. _

"…you need me."

"I need you?" she repeated, her voice a bare whisper.

"Your father said so." He pulled the letter out from his inside jacket pocket and passed it to her. As she read the missive, the realization that her father and aunt had been playing matchmaker made her smile.

"Elizabeth, I love you."

_Oh, damn and blast! Time to own up, girl._

"And I love you, Erik," she exclaimed and threw caution to the wind. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Erik returned her kiss, tentatively at first, then with all the passion he'd kept locked inside far too long. She pressed herself against him, and felt him respond hungrily to her. He turned her in his arms so that he cradled her, shifting her weight effortlessly, and kissed her as he'd only dreamed of kissing her before tonight.

"Say it again," he said, his voice rough and edged with need. He smoothed an errant tress and kissed her eyelids. When she looked lost, he urged her on. "Tell me that you love me."

"I love you," she vowed again and again. "I love you. I have loved you since that first day aboard the _Eye of Horus_. And I will always love you."

-0-0-0-

Out in the hallway, Alpheus crouched behind the closed door, eavesdropping. "This is splendid," he said quietly to himself, rubbing his hands together. "Things are going even better than I expected."

"What are you doing out here, you old codger?" his sister asked, putting her ear to the door. "What are they saying? I can't hear anything."

"That's because, m'dear, they are kissing."

"Oh!" she squealed.

"Not so loud," Alpheus cautioned. "We don't want 'em to know we're listening in on them."

Millicent grinned. "You always were an old softie."

Behind the door, they heard Erik's muffled question, "Did you hear something?"

Alpheus turned to his sister. "I think that's our cue to leave," he whispered.

Millicent nodded, and the two conspirators left, both feeling quite proud of themselves. Min growled in frustration at not being allowed into the room, and paced in a circle before settling down outside the door to await his new friend.

-0-0-0-


	36. Courtship

**Treasures of Egypt  
Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 36  
Courtship**

_Love is best.  
_~Robert Browning, Love Among the Ruins

Ardent caresses eased into gentle kisses. As the poet once said, parting is such sweet sorrow, and Erik and Elizabeth were loath to say goodnight. They settled down together on the sofa in front of the fire, and spent the greater part of the night whispering words of love and taking liberties in expressing their mutual affection. Long after the fire had died down, Elizabeth had fallen asleep in Erik's arms. He lifted her, careful not to wake her, and carried her with the intent of slipping her into her own bed before returning to his. That was when he noticed that Alpheus and Millie had closed the door tight behind them when they'd beat a discreet retreat the previous evening.

Fortunately, the handle on the door of the study was an ornate style; he balanced on one foot and pushed the lever down with the other, opening the door. He paused, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the darkened hallway, and took a step across the threshold--and right onto the sleeping body of Min, who had kept vigil throughout the wee hours, waiting patiently for his new friend to emerge.

Min, much to his credit, did not so much yelp as growl at Erik for the rude awakening. The dog danced around Erik's feet, somehow managing to avoid tripping him. Erik slowly made his way up the stairs, pausing only when Elizabeth stirred, quieting her with a soft kiss on her forehead. She did not awaken when he lay her down upon her own bed, nor when he whispered that he loved her and covered her with a warm blanket.

By dawn, Erik was in his pajamas and snuggled comfortably in his own bed--alone, missing the woman he loved, but content in the knowledge that, for the first time in his life, he was loved in return. A cold nose informed him when Min burrowed under the covers next to him, and the dog snored contentedly as Erik dreamt of Elizabeth.

-0-0-0-

Millicent had been awake since shortly before dawn and was now in the kitchen, filling the house with the aroma of sizzling bacon and hot coffee. Min scratched at the bedroom door, ready to start his rounds. Loyalty has its limits, and as far as the terrier was concerned, at this moment Erik was far less interesting than Millie and the prospect of food. Erik stumbled from bed, opened the door wide enough to allow the dog to escape, and blinked in surprise at the sight that greeted him.

Outside, poised to knock, stood Elizabeth, looking fresh and well-rested. She stepped aside as the dog rushed past her, and giggled when Erik, suddenly wide awake, drew her inside. He pushed her against the door, his body flush against hers, and stole a kiss--then another.

She tousled his hair, his real hair, and placed a warm hand upon his ravaged cheek. She kept her voice low, hoping it would not carry beyond this room. "It's good to see you…really see you…at last."

That was all the encouragement he needed. He lifted her into his arms as he kissed her, and sighed as she molded herself to him.

"Breakfast will be cold," she teased.

"Breakfast be damned," he replied. "I have everything I need right here."

"Father and Aunt Millicent will be down there already, eating. If you'd prefer to sleep, you may, but I really must--Erik, stop that!--join them at the table."

He sighed dejectedly as she attempted to back out the door. "I will behave myself…if I must." He stole one last kiss. "But it won't be easy."

The morning light filtered through the open window and lit up the room with a cheerful glow, and the scent of English roses were carried on the breeze. Erik held out his arms, inviting her to come to him. Her lips, red and kiss-swollen from the night before, had never been more compelling.

She reached out and brushed the shock of hair that had fallen into his eyes away, and let her hand linger.

She was transfixed, reluctant to leave, but knowing that if she stayed, she might never go back down the stairs to breakfast where her father and her aunt waited.

"Here I am, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum, while you…. No, sir," she said, with mock determination, "I will not have my way with you, no matter how much you encourage me. Now, do be a gentleman and get dressed. We are waiting for you at the family table. I believe Father has plans for you this morning."

He took a step away and brushed her hands with his lips. He gazed at her longingly, aching to hold her, and picked up his dressing gown and shrugged it on. "That sounds ominous," he said with a playful frown. "Is he sending me packing?"

"Worse," she chuckled. "I have a hunch that he wants to enlist your help in cataloging some of his artifacts."

Erik nodded. "I see. It is a test of knowledge," he surmised.

"Nonsense," she huffed. "It is simply his way of getting acquainted." She turned and walked away, calling over her shoulder, "Don't be long, darling," she said with a wink. "I'll keep your sausage warm while you are dressing."

Erik stared at the trousers hanging on the edge of his trunk, thinking of what she'd said, and wondered how he would ever manage to put them on in his current state.

-0-0-0-

Later, Erik joined Elizabeth and Aunt Millie at the breakfast table. Millicent had been pleased when she saw that her niece had left her hair down and was wearing a lovely lavender walking dress. But she admired even more the cut of her young man's jib in his impeccably tailored dark blue morning coat, a color so dark that it was almost black, but that brought out the color of his eyes. Even the mask was impeccable, but then again, Aunt Millie suspected that was always the case with Erik Rien--that the man could make a simple working man's shirt and trousers look above reproach.

They took their seats, and a moment later, Erik felt something on the top of his foot. He looked down to find his four legged shadow resting his head on the toe of Erik's boot, mournful brown eyes staring up pleadingly.

"You can't possibly be hungry," Erik whispered, only to have Min respond by cocking a canine brow, looking for all the world as if he knew what humans said. Now that Elizabeth was onto him for slipping food to Min, he made a greater effort at subtlety. "I'm not terribly hungry," he explained to Millie, who had taken it as a personal challenge to fill out Erik's lean frame.

"You're practically gaunt," she complained. "Hmph. Anyone can see that you've been wasting away in Egypt during Beth's absence."

Elizabeth sat up straight as she heard Erik's voice as clearly as if he had whispered it directly in her ear. "I'm not hungry…for food," he had said, in a way that made her temperature rise. She never saw his lips move, but judging by the look on his face, he'd said it all right--and meant it.

Aunt Millie ignored the silent signals that were being passed across the table and went about cheerily setting out breakfast. There were several serving dishes. Erik lifted the lids to find what looked like undercooked eggs in one, half-cooked bacon in another and a mound of fat sausages in a third. He had his doubts that he would be able to do justice to so much food when Millie brought even more dishes to the table.

"Stewed tomatoes and some kippered herring," she said, explaining what was in the dishes. "My brother loves them with his eggs."

Erik stared warily at all the food, accustomed to breaking his fast with a simple cup of tea, a piece of toast and an occasional pastry.

"You must be a good person," Millie said.

Engrossed on what he could eat without insulting his hostess, Erik realized he had not been listening to what the woman was saying. "Beg pardon?" he asked, having decided that a cup of tea would be all right.

Millicent pointed to the dog. "He doesn't cozy up to just anyone. Jack Russells in general, and Min in particular, are very astute judges of human character. Over the years, I've learned to trust his instincts implicitly and never once has he failed me. By the way, I do hope you're planning a nice, long visit with us! We so rarely have visitors, and you are already like a member of our family."

Erik looked across the table to Elizabeth, waiting to take his cue from her. Before either could answer, Aunt Millie pressed on. "I think it would be splendid if you spent the summer here in Burford. Much nicer here than in Egypt this time of year."

At that moment, Alpheus entered the room. "Ah!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "Breakfast."

"Sit down and help yourself," his sister said, noticeably less helpful with her brother than she had been with Erik.

Alpheus attacked the eggs like a starving man and put a generous portion of them onto his plate. Then, he found the stewed tomatoes with fresh mushrooms and placed a helping of them on top of the eggs. Another serving spoon plopped herring next to the tomatoes and eggs, and the whole thing was topped off with a hefty serving of bacon and sausage. Erik could only stare in wonderment, amazed at the prospect of one man putting away so much food at one sitting!

The professor beamed merrily at Erik as he tucked his napkin into his collar. "Now then, what is it that we are we talking about?" he asked as he buttered some toast and slathered it with marmalade.

"I was asking," answered Millicent, "if Mr. Rien might like to spend the summer here in Burford, that it is much more clement than summer in Egypt."

The professor nodded and scooped some eggs onto his toast and took a bite. "Quite right. Nothing worse that desert heat and scorpions." He was so intent on his food that Alpheus missed the humorous looks Erik and Elizabeth exchanged. Instead, he asked Erik, "How long have you been in the antiquities business?"

"Five years," he replied.

"Tricky business, you know. It can take a lifetime of study to learn to tell the real thing from a fake. Even then, a good forger can slip one past even the most knowledgeable of experts. I once knew a man who had a rather original way of giving his smaller pieces that ancient look."

"And what was that, may I ask?"

"This man--can't recall his name; it's been many years--would carve the most exquisite scarabs, and would then feed them to his geese."

"Whatever did he do that for?" asked Millicent.

"Well, what goes in must come out, m'dear," said her brother. "And when the goose would expel the scarab, it came out with a perfectly aged patina."

Elizabeth let out an unladylike snicker. "I'm sorry," she said, an impish look on her face. "I was only thinking how fortunate Erik is to have A'aqil. To see that things run smoothly while you're here," she added quickly.

"Who's this A'aqil?"

"An expert at detecting forgeries, Father," she explained. To Erik, she said, "I'm sure he is doing an impressive job."

Erik ignored her remarks, knowing she was teasing him over his servant's earlier admission to making 'authentic reproductions,' and decided to try one of the sausages. He quirked an eyebrow at Elizabeth as he chose the largest one on the platter.

"I have an idea!" said Elizabeth, suppressing a laugh as Erik wrangled his sausage. "Father, why don't you show Erik your collection? I'm sure the two of you would find much to discuss."

-0-0-0-

After breakfast, Alpheus and Erik retired to the professor's study. Elizabeth had been invited to accompany them, but chose to linger in the background. It pleased her greatly to see the two most important men in her life getting comfortable with each other, but she wanted to remain nearby, should she be needed to smooth over any unforeseen difficulties. She watched as Erik admired a small statuette of a woman, the way he turned it in his hands making her wish he were touching her.

The statuette was almost seventeen inches tall and carved from milky alabaster. The slight shade of pink in the alabaster lent an ethereal quality to the sculpture of a woman standing erect, her arms at her sides as her face looked forward. She wore a simple sheath dress and a heavy wig.

Erik was familiar with the style, and recognized it as a fashion that was favored by both royalty and commoner at the time this work had been created.

"The sculptor displays fine modeling and a sensitivity to the subtleties of the feminine form," he said, choosing his words carefully, knowing that Professor Cutteridge was judging him. "This suggests that the statue is, in all likelihood, a product of a royal studio."

"It is the first piece I ever found," Alpheus said with more than a little pride. "Look here." He pointed to an inscription. "These hieroglyphics spell out her name. Nephritis or something like that."

Erik coughed delicately.

"Did I get something wrong?" Cutteridge asked.

"I believe nephritis is a disease of the kidneys," Erik said, carefully correcting the other man. He knew, of course, that Cutteridge was only testing him, and found it amusing that the elderly professor was so clumsy at deceit. __He took a closer look at the archaic writing. "It looks more like her name is Nafrit."

Professor Cutteridge smirked. "Nafrit? The Virgin?" he said innocently as he accepted the statue back from Erik and replaced it on the shelf. "Yes, no doubt you are correct."

They walked over to another piece.

"Now, here is a fine example of a Middle Kingdom block statue," said the professor, pointing to a piece almost two feet high, carved of dark granite. This time, it was the figure of a man wearing a simple shoulder-length wig and chin beard. He stood solemnly with his arms crossed over his chest, wrapping his body in a rectangular mantle on which the sculptor had carved names and attributes.

"Very nice indeed," agreed Erik. "As I recall, these cloaked figures were an invention of the Middle Kingdom." He inspected the piece more closely. "Late 11th Dynasty, perhaps."

The professor nodded approvingly. "12th Dynasty, actually, but your guess is quite close for having only given the piece a brief look."

Erik raised a brow. "Guess? No, Professor, I never guess. I took into account the manner in which the man is dressed, the style of his wig and the hieroglyphics and deduced that this was either late 11th Dynasty or early 12th. With a more thorough examination, I'm certain I would have been able to narrow the date down with more accuracy."

The professor only muttered something that sounded like "Touché" as they continued their examination. Before he could say anything about the next piece--a foot-high sculpture of a husband and wife seated next to each other--Erik beat him to the punch.

"New Kingdom," he pronounced.

The professor nodded. "18th Dynasty, in fact."

"Reign of Amenophis III," Erik added, narrowing down the date.

The professor was impressed. "And how do you deduce that?"

"Look at the faces of the man and woman--their round cheeks, slanted eyes and ingenuous expressions. They could be duplicates for the pharaoh." He paused, but could see that Cutteridge was waiting for him to continue explaining his reasoning. "The people of ancient Egypt wanted to emulate their living god, and what better way to do this in their carvings and paintings than to give to themselves their pharaoh's features?"

"Quite true," the professor admitted.

Erik inspected the details of the sculpture. "I would also hazard to suggest that the couple enjoyed a loving relationship."

"Now you are surely guessing!"

"On the contrary," Erik countered, warming up to the subject as his confidence grew. "Look here," he said, pointing to the man. "See how he holds an emblem of male virility. And his wife, the way she tenderly cups her hand under his elbow in a gesture of intimacy. I suspect these two were very much in love with each other," he added, perhaps a bit wistfully as his thoughts went back to Beth. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing quietly in a corner, smiling at him.

"And what do you make of this?" Elizabeth asked, stepping forward and holding something in her hand. She gave it to Erik, who saw that it was an ancient mirror handle carved of wood and in the form of a nude girl holding a kitten in one hand and pushing her hair back over her shoulder with the other.

"It once graced a lady's mirror," said Erik.

"Notice the details," Elizabeth said. "Women's hair had strong erotic connotations for the ancient Egyptians. In the New Kingdom, this sort of gesture--of a woman pushing her hair back over one shoulder--clearly had sexual meaning." When she realized how bold she had become, she felt her face blush.

Erik said nothing, but only stared, while her father asked, "And where did you learn this?"

"It's something…that I…uhm, deduced on my own," she answered, waiting for her father to make some sort of reprimand.

Instead, he exclaimed, "Brilliant!" He squinted as a thought crossed his mine. "Hold on a moment. Something arrived in the mail yesterday that I want you both to see." He hurried to his desk and began sifting through mountains of correspondence, searching for the document in question.

Elizabeth took advantage of the moment and brushed against Erik. With a slow, deliberate motion, she tossed her long hair over her shoulder.

He suppressed a sigh and shook his head at her audacity. "Temptress!" he muttered.

"Here it is," Alpheus declared triumphantly, waving a flat box in the air. "It is a papyrus one of my contacts in Cairo sent to me. It appears to be a love poem, dedicated to a betrothed couple." He presented it to Elizabeth. "I thought you might enjoy translating it in your spare time."

She beamed and opened the box gingerly, careful not to disrupt the contents. She scanned the document, pursing her lips as she read. "Oh, Father," she said reverently. "It's exquisite!"

Erik leaned in for a better look, and unconsciously placed his hand on the small of Beth's back. She glanced up at him, her face flushed with excitement from the new discovery, and batted her eyelashes. It was all he could do not to kiss her.

"Yes," Alpheus said, watching them closely. "This will keep you both busy for an hour or two."

Erik stood up straight, remembering himself. "Elizabeth is the expert," he commented dryly. "I have little experience with such artifacts. Most of my customers are interested in decorative items for their homes. Occasionally, museum representatives come to me for specific items, but these men are as likely as not to deal in the black market."

Alpheus opened his mouth, then closed it, hesitant to broach the subject that had niggled the back of his mind.

"You want to ask if I am a legitimate dealer," Erik said emotionlessly. He appeared unruffled, calm, as though accustomed to living with constant questions about his past.

"Not at all. My daughter would not associate with you if you were as bad as you like to pretend to be," Alpheus averred. "I was about to say that I've been known to dabble in the black market on occasion m'self."

Elizabeth gasped. "Father!"

"Better an item of genuine value end up in my hands than in the garden of some pretentious nobleman with delusions of grandeur," he sniffed.

-0-0-0-

They were so engrossed in their task that they did not notice when Alpheus quietly left them. Heads touching, each took a segment of the fragment and studied it, translating the hieroglyphs into English. Occasionally, Erik would interrupt Elizabeth, asking for clarification with his understanding of the verse.

"They are love poems," she explained. "Imagine! These were written more than 3,000 years ago."

"Yet the emotion is as fresh today as they were when the ink was wet." He looked closely at the papyrus. "The poet's love endured the ages." He put down his quill and read the poem aloud, noticing that Elizabeth closed her eyes to listen carefully to his interpretation of the ancient words.

_I wish I were your mirror  
so that you always looked at me.  
I wish I were your garment  
so that you would always wear me.  
I wish I were the water that washes your body.  
I wish I were the unguent,  
O woman, that I could anoint you.  
And the band around your breasts,  
and the beads around your neck.  
I wish I were your sandals,  
wrapped around your feet, encasing them protectively!_

She sighed wistfully, the feelings evoked by the poems transcending time. It was her turn to read. She settled against the back of the chair, relaxing as the sultry poem colored her tone of voice.

_O my beautiful one, I wish I were part of your affairs, like a wife.  
With your hand in mine your love would be returned.  
I implore my heart: "If my true love stays away tonight,  
I shall be like someone already in the grave."  
Are you not my health and my life?  
How joyful is the heart that seeks you!_

He pulled her into his lap, enjoying the sensation of her weight on his legs and her arms around his shoulders. "This is what I've always wanted," he said lovingly, nuzzling her tenderly. "I never realized that I _needed_ anyone, but if I lost you now, I…."

"You won't lose me," she promised. "I need you, too." An idea crossed her mind. "Erik, do you recall saying that our worlds could not meet? Well, now that you have come to my home, I want to show you all of my favorite places. I want you to see the Cotswolds. After all, this quaint little village is as much your home as mine; that is, it is until…until you return to Luxor."

He froze. "Return?" he said slowly. _There's nothing to go back to, without her. _He loosened his collar as the world closed in upon him.

She peered at him, realizing something was wrong. "Erik, I'm not sending you away," she said, with a cheerful lilt. "I want to share everything I love with you. Everything in England that I cherish is right here in Burford – including one very dour, enigmatic Frenchman who happens to be the bravest man I know. After all, you came here expecting a firing squad, apparently," she said with a laugh, "and instead, you found…you found…" she stopped, noticing tears in his eyes.

"I found love," he said. "No going back now."

"We'll have a marvelous time. There's a magnificent church with a lovely old organ--"

"Organ?"

"A massive pipe organ! Surely you saw the church spires on your way here from the train station. This place has a magic to it, darling. It has been a healing balm for me, and I want you to see it for yourself." She smiled so charmingly, he could have refused her nothing. "You'll love it, Erik, I'm certain of it. Stay with me. You'll be happy here."

"I'd be happy no matter where I am, if you love me." He was still uncertain of her. In the light of day, would she see him for who he really was, and send him away?

"I do love you, and nothing you can say will change that." She pursed her lips. "There are no more skeletons, are there? Nothing lurking in your closet that I should know about?"

He chuckled. "I have no secrets from you. You know me as no one else does."

"You can always trust me," she said softly. "You know that." She pushed against his chest and cocked her head to one side. "Now, sir, put on your walking boots. We're going to see the town, and walk off some of that breakfast."

"What about lunch? I can hear Millie in the kitchen already."

"She's starting supper. We don't eat lunch here. Good heavens! After a farmer's breakfast, who has room for lunch?" She stood up and smoothed out her dress.

Erik watched her hands moving across her waist and her hips, saw the fabric ripple in front of her fingers as she pressed out the wrinkles. He groaned a little when she adjusted the bustle and shook out her skirt.

She turned to leave the room. "Aren't you coming?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "I...I'll be along in a moment."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Erik. You should have told me that I was cutting off the circulation in your legs."

"It... it isn't that. I...just need a moment, that's all."

"Oh." She turned beet red. "I see," she said, smiling devilishly. "Then a good, long walk in the fresh country air is just what the doctor ordered."

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note:** The Egyptian poems are authentic. We often think of the Egyptians as a gloomy, death-obsessed people; but that is only because we interpret them through the distorted lens of their tombs. The nobles among them at least yearned for an afterlife because they enjoyed this life too much to want to leave it. Their painting and poetry celebrates the pleasures of food, music, dance, and love.

Amenophis III is better known these days as Amenhotep III. He was the father of Akhenaten.


	37. Vows

**Treasures of Egypt  
Chapter 37  
Vows**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

"_O mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming."_

~William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

A nice, brisk walk was just the thing to work off certain pent up energies. It was a warm June day, too perfect to be spent inside. As he waited by the door for Elizabeth, who'd dashed to the kitchen to fetch a small picnic to take with them, Erik mused on the changes he'd noticed since his arrival.

Gone was the sad, distant woman in mourning he'd bid farewell at the train station in Luxor. In her place was this new woman, one who was more relaxed, more at ease with herself and the world around her. The ever-practical persona of Elizabeth Brackenstall had been shed; in her stead was a woman more playful and open and – dare he think it? – more romantic than the woman he'd met last December. But lingering in the back of his mind was the concern that beneath this façade of happiness, there still lurked a broken heart, and for that reason, he promised himself to be patient.

The last thing he wanted to do was to force her hand in any way. She was only recently a woman whose world had been shattered, and Erik understood only too well how that felt. Had not his own world been shattered five years ago?

Odd, he thought, when he realized that it had been a long time since he'd given Christine any truly serious thought. It wasn't as if he had forgotten her completely. Hadn't he been curious enough to ask Hélène about her when he passed through Paris? But that was all it had been—passing curiosity. He knew now that while the young diva would always be a part of his life, she would never again be the most important part. She would remain a memory—neither good nor bad, but that was how it should be, shouldn't it? He knew in his heart that he was over her, had known it since the day he'd secreted the sketchbook into Beth's luggage and burned the drawings of Christine. Christine had been, after all, nothing more than a dream.

Erik had to laugh at that. A dream? More like an obsession. His thoughts went back to those days at the opera house…and Christine. He remembered the bal masqué and those fevered weeks afterwards, during which he wrote his great opera, his Don Juan Triumphant.

Don Juan Triumphant? The thought of it made him laugh at the foolishness of it all. What in the world had he been living, back when he wrote that? Don Juan was not someone to emulate. The man had been a greedy, lustful bastard whose only thoughts had to do with physical gratification. Even that duet he had written, with its words of passion and buds bursting into bloom, had been nothing more than a farce, a game to lure an innocent into his lair, and his bed. They had been as hollow as Erik's protestations of love for Christine. His fantasies had never included what Christine wanted, only what he had wanted.

The young girl may have had a real attraction to Erik, but looking back, he could see that whatever there had been between them, it had been superficial at best. She had been young, immature. Perhaps she had mistaken physical attraction for love. But these days, Erik knew the difference.

After all, Christine had never held his hand when he was ill, had never cared whether he ate or slept, had never taken an interest in those little things that lovers do. She had been about the costumes and how he looked in them, and when the mask came off? Why, she fled. Unlike Elizabeth, she never saw him as a real person. The fact that he had never acted like a real person had only complicated matters.…

Isolation did strange things to a person. If he had lived under ordinary circumstances, as an ordinary person, he might never have found himself drawn to such a young, inexperienced woman. She had been right when she chose her young man. In fact, her lack of maturity had matched his own. But living in the real world, with real people, had changed all of this. If he had met Christine Daaé after spending five years in Luxor, he was certain he would have seen her as nothing more than just another flighty European. These days, he appreciated a woman who knew her own mind, not one who easily acquiesced to his every demand, who had been foolish enough to believe in Angels of Music.

But, he admitted, she did have a certain goodness about her. Even after all he had put her through, she had shown herself to be the better person. She had made her choice, God bless her, and had still managed to show compassion. Yes, let her be happy with Raoul; that is how it should be.

And because of her, he had been forced to rethink and rebuild his life. After weeks of near-madness, he'd found his bearings once again and painful as it had been, he had forced himself back onto his feet, said good-bye to the past and walked towards the future. Yet even in his wildest dreams, he had not imagined he would have a second chance at love…but here it was, staring him in the face.

There would always be a soft spot in his heart for Christine Daaé, but not for the reasons he once thought. He would remember her for getting him headed in the right direction. He had to laugh. Five years ago, he'd been hiding in the shadows, plotting to steal a young girl's heart. Today, he was standing openly in the sunlight, waiting for a beautiful woman who said she loved him.

Footsteps alerted him that Elizabeth had joined him, a picnic basket hanging from her arm. This was what life held for him—a mature woman, a wiser woman who knew his darkest secrets yet loved him nonetheless.

-0-0-0-

There had been a time in his life when Erik would have dreaded going out in public, but today, he was looking forward to walking about Burford. He had never known the pleasure of escorting a lady on a walk, never dreamed of doing so in broad daylight for all to see. And as if this were not brazen enough, Elizabeth dared to put her arm in his, and walk in comfortable companionship in public. They were greeted with polite nods, although a few people were briefly taken aback by the unusual appearance of the man wearing a mask. The townspeople took it in stride. Apparently, they were accustomed to eccentric behavior among university folk such as the Cutteridges and among the few gentry who still kept summer homes in the area.

Burford had been a thriving spot, "the gateway to the Cotswolds," close enough to London to make an easy excursion for those able to afford getaways, and far enough away to seem remote. Sadly, in recent years, Burford had undergone an economic decline. No longer were tourists flocking to the village, but some of the townspeople held hope that it would flourish again one day. Indeed, it was a world apart from the city, with its cobblestone and slate paths and its rustic homes. Elizabeth hoped he would love it, would come to think of it as a second home, and told him so.

Erik patted his pocket. "Speaking of home, I've a letter to post while we are out," he explained. "A'aqil is expecting me back in Luxor next week. If I am to stay longer, I should let him know. Or rather, I should let Safa know. She will…."

"Worry about you?" Elizabeth suggested. "Of course she will be worried about you. Why does it surprise you?"

Erik shrugged the way he often did when he tried to express a difficult emotion. "I've never had anyone who wanted me around," he offered.

She turned to him and held his gaze, without saying a word.

He grew more uncomfortable by the moment. "People have always been afraid of me," he explained. "All my life, people have expected the worst of me."

"I am not naïve," she said softly, seeking to put his fears to rest. "I am not some silly schoolgirl with her head in the clouds." She stepped closer to him, close enough that he could feel her breath upon his cheek. "I know who you are, and I still want to be with you." She nestled herself against him, and whispered. "I love you, Erik. For better and for worse."

The next few days were spent in quiet companionship. Elizabeth's promise was true; Erik felt drawn to the mystery and quiet beauty of her beloved Cotswolds, and found himself looking forward to their long walks on deserted country lanes. That they could find a quiet nook where they could sit and talk, alone, made it all the better. And better yet, they could share a few kisses without fear of being interrupted by anyone. Min had followed them on their first few outings, but by the third day, as they were leaving he crawled into his basket by the stove and waited for Millie to whip up something savory for dinner.

A week of Millicent's sumptuous feasts had left Erik feeling restless. One evening, while Elizabeth and Alpheus were busy with some papyri he'd received that afternoon, Erik was perusing the professor's collection of books. The classic histories were there, represented in a wide variety of languages, as were the great works of literature. He had almost settled on the Theban plays when Millicent walked into the room.

She scanned the scene, and sat in the chair closest to Erik. She tapped his elbow, and when he leaned down, she whispered in his ear. "It's too bad she didn't meet you first, instead of wasting the past five years."

"Five years ago, I was a walking disaster," he scoffed. "She'd have taken one look at me, and run for her life."

She laughed charmingly. "Don't belittle yourself. You've turned out nicely. Quite nicely, if you don't mind my saying so."

He gave her the pleasure of a slight, elegant bow.

"I'm only saying that you're the man she's always needed. Someone who isn't put off by her intelligence. Someone whose passion is equal to her own. Someone who fully appreciates her."

Erik seemed puzzled. "Leo didn't appreciate her?"

"I shan't speak ill of the dead," Millie replied, fanning herself. "Let us say, Leo was...always the good boy."

"Ah, I see," he sneered. "'The boy.'"

Millie patted his arm and motioned for him to sit beside her. "I like you, Erik. I can see why Elizabeth is head over heels for you." She giggled and continued brazenly. "I do believe you are blushing, M. Rien."

"The image is...is different in French than it is in English."

"Oh, I think we both know that she's wild about you. Alpheus knows it too. I say, what's the use of being young and in love if you aren't enjoying yourselves?"

Erik glanced across the room at Elizabeth, and discovered that she was gazing at him in a most compelling way. He set down the book, and moving so gracefully it was almost like gliding, he was at her side.

There, right beside her, Millie thought, exactly where he should be.

-0-0-0-

Over the weeks that followed, Erik and Elizabeth often took long walks. Their walks took them along the River Windrush, past flocks of sheep, and through open fields. The pastoral beauty of the Cotswolds beckoned to them. The arid desert of Egypt was a world away, while the verdant hills of England soothed them. They visited Minster Lovell, and walked among the ruins of the Hall about which Elizabeth had written. During one of their journeys, Elizabeth grew introspective.

"Is it wrong for me to feel like this?" she asked. "To be happy, with Leo gone barely six months?"

Erik shrugged. "Regardless of what society may say, you and I know the truth, that never once were you disloyal to your husband. You were never anything but the most exemplary of wives. From what Leo wrote in his letters to you, he thought so, too."

"But, the truth is, Erik, that I thought about it. About…us."

"Thoughts often come unbidden to us. We are, after all, only human. We cannot stop them. What is important is that you did not act upon them."

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "And neither did you. You were always the perfect gentleman…even when I secretly wished that you would not be so…perfect."

They continued strolling about the garden, inhaling the heady perfume of the roses.

"We need to stop dwelling on the past, Beth. I would much rather look forward to the future. A future with us in it."

"Then let us start by allowing me to show you around town. There are many beautiful sites around Burford that I know you will enjoy."

They visited the magnificent church of St. John the Baptist, with its fine stained glass, its historic architecture, and its magnificent pipe organ.

"It is extraordinary for a parish church," Elizabeth explained. "Most are far more simple, but this one is known as a wool church." She noticed Erik's puzzled expression. "Many people were made wealthy by the demand for Cotswold wool, and some expressed their gratitude to God by building this edifice."

"The church itself is steeped in history," she continued, "filled with fascinating artifacts from times gone by. The mysteriously carved 'Epona Stone' can be found high on the south wall. It is thought to date back as far as the 12th Century and is probably the oldest artifact in the church. The old turret clock dates back to 1685; it actually houses the original mechanism and is still working today. And look here," she said, gesturing towards the rim of the baptismal font. "During the Civil War, a group of rebels known as the Levellers were incarcerated inside the courtyard. One of them left his name carved on the font, in 1649."

She cocked her head to the side, noticing that Erik took an exceptional interest in the architecture of the church. "What do you see?" she asked.

"Three hundred years of various stonemasons at work," he replied. He ran his fingertips across a pillar, touching it delicately. "It takes a lifetime to add this kind of detail. This building may have been made ornate by wealthy patrons," he explained, "but ordinary men gave it a soul."

The sound of choristers starting their practice filled the air. "Come," she said, extending her hand. "Let's see the bell tower. The view of the countryside is remarkable."

As promised, it was a fantastic view. "Our house is over there," she said, pointing it out.

"I believe I see Min digging in the garden."

"Up to no good, as usual," she laughed. But later in the day, as they walked along a forgotten path, her mood became somber.

"Erik," she said hesitantly. "We've never spoken of children."

He stopped mid-stride, and swallowed, bargaining for time to think of his answer. This wasn't going to be easy, so he attempted humor. "They're cute when they're little, but I hear they can be difficult."

She smiled, but it was without warmth. "I wanted to give Leo a child, you know, but it never happened. I doubt it is possible. What if I can't give you children, Erik? Would you still want me? It isn't too late for you to change your mind, you know."

"I'll never change my mind about you," he said quickly. He turned her to face him, and held both her hands. They were so small in comparison to his, so soft and delicate, that he felt an overwhelming desire to protect her, to take care of her.

Always in control, always presenting a staid, stoic figure, she rarely dropped her guard this way, but here, alone with him, exposing her greatest fear, she felt deferential, weakened. Suddenly shy, she tilted her face downwards, and peeked at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

Such vulnerability, especially given the subject of their conversation, was wildly arousing to him. Surely, she could tell the effect this was having on him. Standing this close, she must know.

"Would you want to risk it? That is, would you...." He shrugged and ducked his head, gathering his own thoughts.

She squeezed his hands. "Go on. What were you about to say?" she whispered.

"What if the child were a monster? What if he were to look like me?"

Air hissed between her teeth as she drew in a deep breath. "You're no monster. But there are always risks, regardless. Even under the best of circumstances, there might be…difficulties." She caressed the backs of his hands with tender kisses. "I think we'd do the best we can, should we be blessed with a child."

He blinked back tears of relief. "It would interfere with your career. You can hardly climb about in tombs if you are.…"

"Isn't that rather putting the cart before the horse? One must.... Before a baby is conceived...." She was suddenly very much aware of how close he was standing to her. She could feel his hot, moist breath on her face as he dipped his head until their foreheads touched. A very male scent permeated the air and mingled with the fresh, crisp fragrance of crushed grass beneath their feet. She inhaled deeply, drawing him in.

"Yes? You were saying...." He looked at her keenly before letting go of her hands and pressing a palm to her cheek. "Are you feeling well, Beth? You are flushed."

She shook her head as if coming out of a daze. "I'm fine, but perhaps we should rest a moment.... Over there, under that tree." She pointed to a rise nearby. "Let's sit a while and watch the river."

They left the path, walking up the hill with Erik in the lead, pulling Elizabeth gently by the hand. When they arrived at the crest, he was puzzled by the sight of tall stones standing in an ancient circle. "A henge?" he asked.

"Not strictly speaking. It's a cromlech, a megalithic circle. They are all over the place. This is an ancient land, you know. It isn't as glamorous as Egypt, but there is history nonetheless, if you know where to look for it. Over there, for instance," she said, pointing to a berm running along the far side of the hill, "may lay a prehistoric king, entombed in noble slumber."

"Poetic," he said, a grin spreading across his face. He took off his coat, spreading it underneath an ancient oak tree, its boughs laden with mistletoe. With a wave of his hand and a slight bow, he invited her to sit, but instead of sitting with her, his curiosity drew him to the stones. Their primeval power seemed to entice him, to lure him closer. He wandered among them, running his hands over the surface, measuring their height, looking at them with an architect's eye. The thrill of discovery was palpable.

Seeing him like this, completely abandoned to the moment, thrilled her. "You've seen these in France, no doubt," she said, raising her voice to reach his ears.

He nodded, ever attentive to her, but turned his back to her briefly and raised his hands to his face.

She knew from the movement in his shoulders and the flash of a handkerchief that he must be wiping perspiration from his face, moisture trapped underneath his mask. Taking full advantage of the moment, she let her gaze wander down his form, resting on his powerful muscles, and allowed herself to appreciate his fit, trim physique while he was totally unaware of her doing so. She wondered briefly if Mme Chrétien had made his suit and shirts, tailoring them perfectly to accentuate his shape, and the glint of sun off the gold fob of his watch caught her eye – a miniature of Ra-harakhty, the falcon, its wings spread gloriously wide. Tailoring meant measuring, she thought, and measuring meant wrapping a tape around his chest…running it down the length of his arms and legs…checking the size of his feet…those feet she couldn't stop staring at in Egypt, when they were first in the desert, wondering if the measurement of them correlated to other anatomical structures.

"What's wrong?" he asked, startling her. She had been lost in her thoughts, unaware that he'd come back from the circle of stones. He sat down beside her, graceful as could be, each movement a portrait in poise. He drew an elegant finger under her chin and pondered her expression with the same inquisitiveness as he had studied the stones.

"Perhaps we'd better keep walking," she said hoarsely.

He rose and extended a well-manicured hand to her. The musician's calluses on his fingertips rasped across her palm as she grasped his hand and he pulled her to her feet a little too forcefully. He caught her in his arms and held her tight, her breasts brushing against him. Displaying rigid self-control, he stepped back and turned towards the footpath. "Where are you taking me now?" he asked with a playful lilt in his voice.

"It's a secret," she replied, putting a finger to her lips. "A surprise. I think you'll like it," she said mysteriously.

He reached down and picked up a sprig of mistletoe that had fallen from the great oak spreading over them, and stuck it in his lapel. "How's this?"

"Perfect." She smoothed his lapel. "The Druids thought it had sacred powers."

"There is a custom among your people," he said slyly. "One kisses beneath the mistletoe, I believe."

She looked into the soaring branches of the tree, saw the boughs of mistletoe hanging o'erhead, and smiled back at him. "We mustn't break with custom," she said, welcoming him into her arms for a brief kiss, and then another.

"Come," she said breathlessly. "We have far to go."

He kissed her again. "I'd rather stay here, underneath the mistletoe." He held her tighter, but released her the moment she wriggled.

"There's something I want to show you," she said mysteriously. "Something I think you'll enjoy." She went to a clump of blue flowers. "This is called Bachelor's button. In the language of flowers, it is a symbol of Celibacy, or happiness with being single."

Mention of celibacy caused Erik a moment of discomfort. He had found no happiness in being single. Acceptance, perhaps, but not happiness. "I had no idea there was a language of flowers."

"Then let me teach you." They continued their slow amble through the countryside. Elizabeth stopped in front of a clump of red carnations. Her cheeks were flushed, but Erik wasn't sure of the reason. When she explained the meaning of the flower, Erik had a hunch.

"Carnations," she said, "mean devoted love. Specifically, the red ones mean, 'My heart aches for you'." She looked at him meaningfully.

Erik plucked one of the red flowers and stuck it in his lapel together with the mistletoe. Elizabeth said nothing, but Erik noticed her raised eyebrow.

"Ah!" he said, indicating a rambling rose bush overgrowing a farmer's fence, covering it with large red blossoms. "This is one I know." He selected a single perfect bloom and offered it to her. "Did I ever tell you how much I missed the scent of your perfume, after you left?"

A shy smile broke forth on her face. He remembered. "Attar of roses."

"Perhaps I should not confess this..."

"Go on."

"You left this behind. I found it in the guest suite." He reached inside his pocket and produced a dainty square of lace and linen.

"My handkerchief!"

"I kept it here," he said, touching his left breast, "close to my heart. It reminded me of you."

Elizabeth put the cloth to her face, inhaling its fragrance with hints of her own perfume and Erik's cologne, an intoxicating blend of the two of them. He tugged it slowly from her hand, and replaced it inside his shirt, next to his heart.

They continued their walk, pausing occasionally as Elizabeth explained the meanings behind the different flowers, and gathered some for the tussy-mussy she was making. At last they came upon an old tree trunk and sat down. She handed Erik the small bouquet.

"Now for the test. We'll see if you've been paying attention."

Erik frowned slightly as he examined the flowers. "This purplish flower is Bittersweet; that means Truth. And this is Dill. Yes, this is better. It means ardor." He looked at her beguilingly, his face slightly flushed. "And one more. What is this one? I can tell it is from a tree of some sort, but the bud hasn't opened yet."

"It's…it's called Arbutus," she said, her voice suddenly hoarse.

"Go on."

"It means, 'Only thee do I love'."

Neither said anything, but sat in blessed silence.

"Look, over there." She pointed an old stone church, standing alone, in the middle of nowhere. "There's more. Over there, by the door to the chapel."

"It is even older than the parish church," I remarked. "I see work that must go back seven hundred years." He studied the foundation. "What is this place?"

"It's St. Oswald's. Some say it was built over an ancient pagan altar. I suppose many holy places know no denomination."

He grinned and cocked his head. "Let's go inside."

-0-0-0-

The heavy oak door creaked on ancient iron hinges as Erik pushed on the massive handle. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that filtered through the windows, casting a haze as they walked into the old stone church.

Elizabeth curtsied deeply before the altar, and placed her bouquet on the edge of it before bowing her head in prayer.

Erik stood a moment, taking in the scene before him and enjoying the play of light on Elizabeth's hair and fair complexion. The afternoon light created a soft glow on everything it touched, making it seem other-worldly, ethereal. He knelt beside Elizabeth and realized she was speaking aloud, apparently intending for him to hear her prayers.

"…and dear Lord," she whispered, "please let Erik understand that I don't judge him. I leave his judgment in Your hands. I ask only that you would forgive him, as your Son our Savior Jesus Christ forgave the World at Golgotha."

A groan escaped him. "That's blackmail," he whispered.

Elizabeth ignored him, continuing her prayer. "And help him understand that I have fallen in love with him all over again, and that I love him for the man he has become, and for the man he will be. Let the man he was be gone forever, and not intrude on our happiness. Amen." She opened her eyes, and gazed at Erik though heavy lids.

Realizing that their relationship could change forever, here and now, Erik stared at her in abject wonder. "Did you mean what you said?" he asked, half afraid of her answer. He reached for her hand.

She nodded reassuringly, and held his hand tightly. "I promise to love you now and always."

"Until death do us part?"

"Until we are parted by death."

He nodded in solemn agreement. "I promise to love you, honor you and worship you, with all my heart, my soul and my body."

"I promise to love, honor, and worship you, with all my heart, soul, and body," she replied.

He turned towards the altar. It had been a long time since he had prayed – if he had – but if ever there was a time for faith, it was now. "Make of our lives, one life. Make of our hands, one hand, always in support of one another."

"Help us to be strong for each other. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, help us to cherish each other."

"With all that I am, with every fiber of my being, I love you, Elizabeth. I will always love you." He bent his head down and kissed her finger, and when he pulled away, she saw that he had slipped a simple gold band upon it. A wedding ring.

She looked into his face, love in her eyes. "Where…when…?"

"I had no right to hope...but I couldn't help it. We'll get you something else, if you wish. You can have anything you like....You should have anything. Anything at all! Diamonds? Would you prefer sapphires?"

She shook her head, blinking back tears of joy as she gazed at the ring on her finger. "It's exactly what I wanted."

"There's an inscription," Erik said.

She looked more closely at the ring and saw the delicate engraving. "Journeys End?"

"Journeys end in lovers meeting," he said, quoting the Bard of Avon.

"Our journey is just beginning." She leaned closer and kissed him. "I love you, Erik."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, pulling her to him. "You have given me all the happiness in the world."

-0-0-0-

They left the chapel feeling changed, uplifted, yet committed to one another in a way they hadn't thought possible. They walked in companionable silence, retracing the path back towards the Cutteridge homestead, but when they reached the spot where they had previously diverged towards the circle of standing stones, Elizabeth tugged gently on his arm, and pulled him back to the oak tree. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

One kiss turned into three, each one hungrier and more insistent than the last as their need for one another built. Elizabeth slid down him, drawing him with her to the ground, never breaking their kiss as they knelt beneath the mighty oak.

He shrugged off his coat and hastily spread it on the grass, and Elizabeth lowered herself languorously onto it, beckoning to him to join her. He lay on his side next to her, pulling her closer and closer until there was no space between them.

"I want to see you," she whispered, between delicate kisses quickly growing ardent. He paused, an unfathomable look ghosting across his face, before lowering his head so that she could remove the mask.

His coat, his mask, his cravat…soon, she was removing the studs that held his shirt closed, and slipped her hands inside the stiffly starched linen to feel the warmth of his chest, the hardness of his taut stomach. She played with the hair on his chest and teased his nipples with her tongue.

"Beth," he sighed, closing his eyes tightly. "I…this…it is more than I can stand," he groaned.

"Should I stop?" she asked, knowing full well she did not want to stop, not now, not when they were close to—

He shook his head and swallowed hard. "I…I want to see you, too," he said, so softly she could not be certain what he had said. His hesitation, his respect for her, and his shyness elicited a heat within her, an overwhelming desire to give him pleasure.

She took his hand and put it against her breast, and turned her head so that her throat was invitingly exposed. He obliged with quick nips and gentle kisses to the side of it, intensifying his efforts when she leaned into his lips. Her blouse parted and he put his palm against her back, bare skin against bare skin. Without her even knowing it, he'd been working the buttons of her blouse loose, and was rewarded with an encouraging nod and a smile.

One quick tug and the combs holding back her hair were pulled away, letting it fall loosely around her shoulders. Sun-bleached in Egypt, it was exactly the way he liked it: Free. He brushed it out of her eyes and kissed her temples where tresses lay, watched the rise and fall of her chest as her breath came a little faster with each kiss, and dared to let his hand roam down the length of her torso, pausing at the swell of her belly before descending to her thigh.

He caught her beneath the buttocks and pulled her against him, letting her rub herself where he needed to feel her the most. He groaned, and with a strained voice, he warned her. "You are playing with fire, Beth. Stop now, lest you be burned."

The image of the Egyptian desert flashed in her mind, with Erik standing atop a dune, his scarf blowing in the dry wind. She slipped her hand into the waistband of his trousers, resting it on the small of his back, and she moaned.

"There is only one way to put out this fire that we have kindled, my love."

His eyes were bright with desire. Gone was the shy and hesitant courtier. "I have pledged myself to you before God, in the church of your ancestors, on sacred ground. There will never be another woman for me, but you are still free…free to leave me." Memories of old wounds played across his face, creeping into his words and clouding his thoughts. "Once this is done, once we have joined together, you will never leave me. You will be mine for all time. As I have claimed your heart and your mind, so I will claim your flesh."

It was both terrifying and irresistible, both a promise and a threat of consummation. She felt herself go limp in his arms, sighing as she gave herself over to him. "I want you, Erik," she vowed. "There's no use resisting any longer. I'm done with denial. I am yours, now and forever."

Free from constraints, relieved of worrying about right and wrong, they gave way to their carnal needs – desires long repressed, shunned, hidden away.

She opened her eyes and looked straight into Erik's, replacing every thought of the past with this new experience, this new love. His lips were pursed tightly, almost grimacing, as he fought for control even now, as he was on the brink of a new discovery. He never broke eye contact with her, as though he were trying to enter her thoughts and bore into her very soul with the power of his mind as he claimed her for his own.

His eyes narrowed as pleasure overwhelmed other sensations, the vivid green of them standing out in stark contrast to his reddened complexion. His scars were bright red, inflamed by his passion, and she reached out to touch him. She held his unfortunate face with both her hands as he entered her at last.

Oh! Never had she felt this way. She felt stretched to the breaking point, experiencing exquisite pain and infinite pleasure. She gasped, breathing deeply to allow herself to adjust to the feel of him as they coupled. She relaxed all her muscles, moving slowly underneath him, opening herself up to allow him full entry. Yet still he seemed to be perched on some threshold, not quite completely within her. Again, she moved against him, thrusting her hips, and with one final push, they were fully joined.

"Now you are mine!" he growled, twining his hands in her hair. "Now you cannot ever be free of me!"

She replied in a husky snarl. "I don't want to be free of you." She closed her eyes when she felt him giving in to his needs. He moved roughly against her, as though he wanted to touch every part of her at the same time but didn't know where to begin or how much of his fumbling she would want. Puzzled at first, she soon realized that he had never done this before, had never made love. The recognition made her feel powerful, in control – but she knew she must encourage him, to let him know that all was as it should be.

"Erik," she said eagerly, spurring him on, "you feel…oh, my God! Can you feel how much I want you?" She clutched his back, knowing that he could feel her nails against his skin. She purred with delight, wordlessly letting him know how to touch her, and where.

He couldn't speak, but he replied with a nod, rubbing his malformed cheek against her perfect one, letting her long hair cushion the side of his head. She pressed her face against his, relishing the feel of it, providing unspoken encouragement that she wanted all of him…all of him….

And then, a tightness low in her belly, a narrowing of consciousness, and all she thought about was the sensation of pure pleasure signaling imminent release. Her muscles were tight, contracting with desire, and he sped up, thrusting with abandon as she began to cry aloud, telling him with sounds of pleasure that she was nearing her peak.

He had imagined conjugal relations, but he could not have imagined the way her climax would feel to him.

Oddly, at the time it occurred, he thought, _This isn't in any of the books I've read_, and instantaneously realized how absurd it was to be analytical at a time like this. _Only I would be comparing dusty old books with actual experience._

But in that moment of consciousness, when he was slightly distracted from the act, he felt his own unraveling begin. "Oh!" he muttered, followed by a long, drawn out, "Oh, yes." Immediately, he knew it was better than any book had ever hinted.

Panting, sweating, and totally relaxed, they caught each other's eye and began to chuckle. Relief! After the long months of wanting, they had finally given in to their hearts' desires.

"My Beth," he whispered, nuzzling his cheek to hers. "How I love you!"

She was suffused with a satisfaction she had never known before, and she whispered, "Now you are mine," and pulled him in for another kiss. She wrapped her ankles around his and held him tightly, not willing to relinquish him. Not yet.

"Is this how it will always be?" Erik asked breathlessly.

"This is how it is supposed to be. This is love. I never knew it before, but with you, I feel…" She searched for the right words. "I feel bound to you, heart and soul."

"Are you saying…you never…with…?"

She quieted him with a kiss. "Shhh," she whispered. Knowing he wanted an answer, she admitted, "Never like this. I was never…complete…until you."

Still joined, they lay in each other's arms, sharing endearments and languishing in the afterglow. She spoke to him of her commitment to him, of how deeply she cared for him, and pledged that she would only love him more as they grew older. He spoke to her of longing for her, of how he had begun to despair of her ever returning his feelings, and his abiding love for her. He took a deep breath and grinned smugly. "Soon, we must return to your home," he admitted, with more than a tinge of regret.

"Eventually," she acknowledged. "But not yet. I can tell that you are not yet satisfied." She squeezed him, using muscles that he hadn't known existed.

He gasped in surprise – and delight. What else did the books omit? he wondered. "I suppose there's no hurry," he said, emphasizing it with a slight thrust of his hips. His need for her was growing stronger by the moment.

The second time was less hurried, less frantic. Now that the edge was off, they were able to explore, to linger. Assured that they had complete privacy -- or perhaps not caring -- they were soon as naked as the day they were born, covered only by the spreading boughs of the oak above them and shielded by the undergrowth of wildflowers and tall grass from the sight of any stray passersby who might stumble upon them. Only the trees and the stone circle witnessed their physical wedding, their first tentative forays into nuptial bliss.

Serenaded by songbirds, they joined a second time. He didn't know a lot about sex, but he understood architecture, and he knew that different angles were bound to produce different results. He hadn't counted on such a dramatic effect, though. Elizabeth was transformed from his proper, practical English lady to a passionate, eager partner.

She sank over him, covering him with herself, and cradled him as he came. He was completely relaxed in her arms, totally happy for the first time in his life. She marveled at him, wondering what he was thinking. "How do you feel?" she asked.

How to respond to such a question! He considered it, weighed each of a thousand different feelings that welled up inside him. "I feel…I feel the most incredible bliss," he said at last. He wiped his cheeks quickly, lest she see his tears and mistake them for sorrow instead of joy.

Elizabeth drew back to see his face. Mottled by sunlight streaming through the leaves, it had a grotesque appearance, half angel, half demon. It was the face she loved more than life itself -- the face of her husband.

He wrapped her in his arms and spoke softly. "We can never be apart again," he said, stroking her hair, tenderly touching her back and shoulders.

She nodded, enjoying the feel of him against her. "Together, always," she promised.

With the murmuring river, the birdsong, and the warm rays of the sun enveloping them securely, they dozed in each others arms, happy and sated for the time being. Minutes passed into quarter hours, before a stinging sensation in his most private regions brought Erik to full alertness.

Elizabeth stirred. "Erik? What is it?" She slapped unconsciously at her nether parts.

"Ants!" he roared. "We are lying atop an anthill!" He jumped up and began brushing frantically at his nakedness, which was now covered with stinging insects. Instantly, Elizabeth joined him in her own frenzy. They glanced at each other, taking in their bizarre dance, and began laughing as they brushed and slapped away the insects.

"C'mon!" she called, as she ran towards the river with complete abandon.

"Beth, no! What if we are seen?" He dropped the clothes he had been gathering and ran behind her, jumping into the water beside her.

"Who cares?" she said gaily, not giving a fig what anyone else thought of her. "Let them have a good look! But next time, let's examine the ground more carefully."

He picked an ant off his shoulder, one that was stinging him furiously. "At the time, I wasn't thinking any consequences," he muttered. "Were you?" He was rewarded with a splash of cold water.

She paddled in the water lazily, floating on her back in the full sun. "I had only one thought in mind, and I believe you know what that was."

Even now, in the cool water of the Windrush, he burned for her. "I'd take you again, here and now, if you'd let me," he growled. Never had he seemed more compelling, more aware of his sexuality.

She favored him with a blush. "What's stopping you?"

-0-0-0-

That evening at the supper table, Elizabeth and Erik tried to conceal their secret, but it was no use. Their happiness was explicit. Alpheus and Millicent couldn't help noticing.

"Did something happen today that I should know about?" the Professor asked nonchalantly.

Erik felt a jolt run through his body, but said nothing.

Elizabeth dropped her fork, and as she tried to catch it, she bumped heads with Erik who was trying to help. Concealed beneath the edge of the table, they shared a quick kiss and resumed their places, affecting an air of innocence.

Alpheus rose and stretched. "I think I'll take Min for a nice long walk. What say you come along, Millie? Leave the dishes to the youngsters. Besides, the walk will do us good. We might be gone a long time. Say...at least an hour?"

Erik stood politely. "Would you like company?" Suddenly, he flinched. "Ow!" he exclaimed, rubbing his shin. Beth shot him an evil look.

The Professor knew a kick under the table when he saw one. "No, no," he averred. "You had quite a long walk today. You two need your...rest." He threw a wink at his daughter, to let her know he was onto her.

"Thank you, Father," she said innocently. "Perhaps you should visit your friend, the widow Ethelbert."

Millie squealed with excitement. "An excellent suggestion! Alpheus, we haven't visited her in ages. Perhaps her brother will be there tonight. We could play cards."

"I'm sure she has simply volumes to tell you," Beth remarked.

"She'll keep us for hours, no doubt."

Erik was perplexed. "Am I missing something? There seems to be an undercurrent.…OW!"

"Perhaps there's something you'd like to tell us?" Alpheus asked, looking at his daughter.

"We…uhm…" Elizabeth faltered.

Erik continued, "We were walking along the Windrush and stopped to visit St. Oswald's."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, finding her voice. She smiled at Erik and took his hand into hers. "We exchanged vows." The little band of gold on her finger caught the light and winked up at everyone.

"Married yourselves, did you?" Alpheus asked. He smiled warmly as he thought back to his own youth. "Brings back memories."

Elizabeth sputtered. "You...you don't mean to suggest that you and mother.… Do you?"

Alpheus walked over to the mantle and picked up a small portrait of his bride, ever youthful, as she had died so young. He looked at it lovingly. "She was a child of nature, that one. Never did care too much for authority." He sighed, setting the portrait down carefully. "But to be on the safe side, we made it legal the next day. And you," he said to Beth, "were born nine months later." His mind drifted back to that happy day, thirty years ago. "I remember it clearly. St. Oswald's is a very romantic place. We were, ahem, overcome by the moment." He caught Elizabeth and Erik exchanging a meaningful look, and grinned. "Don't tell me..."

"Looks like it is a family tradition!" Millie laughed heartily. "That's where Drusilla and her colonel were married, too – but in a more traditional manner."

Erik winced and stirred uncomfortably in his seat.

"What's the matter? Ants in your pants?" Alpheus teased – and then, realization set in. He waggled his eyebrows. "Ah, I see. It was a gorgeous summer afternoon. The perfect sort on which to spend an afternoon…sitting by the river…. The best cure for that is…well…I'll let Bethie tell you."

He extended his arm to his sister, and escorted her out the door. "Don't wait up for us. We'll be gone for hours." Min looked anxiously back and forth between Erik and Alpheus, and after a moment's pause, he darted through the door after his master.

Elizabeth sauntered over to Erik and sat gingerly on his lap. "Alone at last," she purred, as she gently removed the wig and the mask. She kissed the side of his head where no hair would ever grow, and worked his collar loose with deft fingers.

He lifted her effortlessly and carried her towards the stairs, but stopped short of carrying her to his bedroom, as the itching in his nether regions intensified. "Elizabeth?" he asked hopefully. "Do you happen to have any antipruritics on hand?"

-0-0-0-


	38. The Bonds of Marriage

**Treasures of Egypt**

**Chapter 38**

**The Bonds of Marriage**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

"_Chains do not hold a marriage together.  
It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years."_

**~Simone Signoret**

The next morning at the breakfast table, Erik and Elizabeth agreed with Professor Cutteridge that a civil marriage would probably be in order. Tongues would wag as it was, what with Elizabeth marrying less than a year after Leonidas's death; no need to add fuel to the fire by suggesting that there was something irregular in regards to their union. Cutteridge assured all that he had a few friends down at the town hall and that if they would leave the details to him, he would have everything set by afternoon. Excusing himself from the breakfast table, the professor bid all good morning and, with Min scampering at his heels, left for town.

Now it was just the three of them. Erik offered to help clean up after breakfast, but Millicent only chuckled and told the couple to make themselves scarce. Erik and Elizabeth immediately accepted Aunt Millie's offer and soon were outside, holding hands as they walked along the River Windrush – enjoying the warmth of a summer's morning.

"What do you think of our leasing a cottage of our own," Erik asked. "It's not that your father or your aunt are anything but gracious hosts, but…"

"…but you would like some privacy?" Elizabeth finished, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

"You know me. I value my privacy. Besides," he said, pausing at a bend in the path, "I have one in mind." He gestured towards a small stone cottage, set back a short distance away. A white plume of smoke wafted out of the chimney, and the mouth-watering aroma of scones drifted towards them. "I took the liberty of leasing it last evening, while you were helping Millie with supper. It came with a housekeeper. She is preparing our afternoon tea even as we speak."

"Erik! The old Hibbard cottage. It's…it's perfect! I've always adored it, admired the way it overlooks the river. The rose garden is exquisite!"

"It overlooks the cromlech," he said with unabashed devilment. He turned serious. "We can keep it, if you like. We could stay in it whenever we visit Burford. It's close enough to your home that your father and aunt may visit whenever they wish."

"Visit?"

A frown creased his forehead. "I…assumed we'd live in Luxor."

"I'd like that very much," she said, haltingly. And then, she brightened. "I'd like very much to be in Luxor, among old friends. I've missed Safa, Ra'id. I've even missed that scamp, A'aqil. And Talibah! How is she, I wonder?"

"According to the latest letter from A'aqil, she had turned my house into her _raison d'etre_," he said jokingly. "He suggests that we will hardly recognize the place when we return."

Elizabeth looked at him closely. "You miss it, don't you? You miss your home."

"I like having my own place. I've…I've never been a guest before. It is awkward at times." His eyes glinted in the morning light. "Last night, for instance. We're newlyweds. Wouldn't you have rather…?"

She blushed. Knowing that her father and her aunt were nearby had been inhibiting, but it was sheer heaven to sleep in Erik's arms. She reflected upon her previous five years of marriage, and how she never knew such passion, such bliss, and came to the realization that while she had liked Leo, she loved Erik.

As for Erik? While he may been new to the arts of lovemaking, what he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm and in his willingness to please her. Even those few times he had lost control, lost himself in his own passion, he made sure afterwards that she was also fulfilled. It was a point of personal pride to give her pleasure she'd never known until _him_.

"You've chosen the perfect honeymoon cottage for us," she said at last. She pursed her lips as she weighed the options. "We could spend our summers here, when it is too hot to dig in Egypt, and we could spend winters in your home in Luxor, when it is too cold in England."

"Our home, Beth," he said gently. "Our home."

They continued their walk to their new home, one of those quintessential English cottages made of Cotswold stone. Surrounding it was a low stone wall covered with rambling roses of varying shades of pink, their perfume filling the air, mingling with the aroma coming from the kitchen. Inside, they introduced themselves to the housekeeper, a silver-haired widow who looked forward to the old cottage being occupied once again.

"It's been standing here, all alone and neglected for the past couple o' years," said Mrs. Dumfries. "But I've got 'er all cleaned up, nice and neat, fer ye. It's ready for ye to be moving in. In fact, I was baking some scones as a kind of welcoming gift for ye. They're just out o' the oven. If ye'll have a seat, I'll brew up some tea. I've made some cucumber sandwiches, too. You can munch on them while you're waitin' fer yer tea."

Erik and Elizabeth exchanged glances, hiding their smiles behind gloved hands. "I think we've come to the right place," he managed to say.

-0-0-0-

Erik and Elizabeth were settling into their new home. While they had all been in town, taking care of the small matter of their "official" wedding, the professor had arranged for some of the neighbors to move the newlyweds' furniture and clothing to what was being called the Honeymoon Cottage. It really didn't trouble Alpheus that his daughter was moving out. While he had enjoyed her company these past few months, he had also missed his privacy, too. They could enjoy the best of both worlds – solitude when wanted, but nearby companionship as well.

True to his word, Alpheus had arranged all the legalities. Their wedding in the town council had been solemn, private, and dignified. With Alpheus and Millicent standing up for them, Erik and Elizabeth said their "I do's" formally this time, signed their names to the official documents, and were pronounced husband and wife.

Until the last moment, Erik had been worried that Elizabeth would change her mind about marrying him. He'd paced the floor, waiting for the appointed hour, certain of his doom. He knew he couldn't survive without her. If she left him now, he wasn't sure he'd survive it. It simply wasn't possible to survive another loss such as this, and Elizabeth meant far, far more to him than anyone else he had ever known.

It was Elizabeth's father who talked him through it. He'd spent time with Elizabeth, telling her how proud her mother would have been to see their daughter happily wed. But Elizabeth had fretted over Erik, and begged her father to go see him and make certain he was ready. He'd scoffed, thinking Elizabeth was overly dramatic – until he saw Erik, white as a sheet, standing in the shadows outside the hall, looking for all the world like a hare seeking shelter from the hounds. _Nervous as a bridegroom, no doubt about it._ He'd chuckled to himself. What did Erik have to be nervous about? The French were famous for their…worldly ways. Could it be that he had waited for marriage? No, it wasn't possible. Elizabeth had said Erik was 38 years old. He'd always seemed commanding, self-assured, sophisticated – until today. And here he was, just like any other man on his wedding day, a bundle of nerves!

Erik had been shy, barely able to speak. He nodded in the Professor's direction, but averted his face, avoiding looking him in the eye. Obviously, the prospect of a wedding was daunting. "I recognize that look," Alpheus said, hoping to convey solidarity with the bridegroom. "It is the terror that grips every man on his wedding day. You're wondering, 'Am I the right man for her? Is she the right woman for me?' And, most of all, you're wondering, 'Am I making the biggest mistake of my life?'" He smiled warmly, waiting for Erik to respond.

Erik shook his head. He spoke in a whisper, and Alpheus strained to hear him. "I have no doubt that I want to marry your daughter. What scares me," he said, mentioning his fear in a moment of aching vulnerability, "or rather, what concerns me, is that she will come to her senses and decide at the last moment to run from me."

_I'm not losing a daughter; I'm gaining a son_, Alpheus thought. _I must be kind, and set a good example for him. After all, he may be the father of my grandchildren one day._ He took him by the elbow and steered him towards the door. "Courage, man. She's waiting for you inside. As we speak, a gaggle of old hens will be putting the finishing touches on your lovely bride. She's wearing her mother's dress, you know, although she's altered it so that it isn't as fussy as it was when her mother and I married." He brushed away a tear of his own. "She'd have been very pleased with you, Erik – Elizabeth's mother. She'd be as fond of you as Millie and I are."

Erik had gazed at him steadily as he spoke. "I will strive to be the man she deserves. She will want for nothing. She will--"

"She'll be happy with you, son, and that's all that matters." He leaned forward. "I know everything I need to know about you, young man, and that is, you're the man she needs." He winked. "And the man she wants. Something tells me that you're the only man who can make her happy."

Erik had been speechless, but felt his eyes welling up. He focused on the ceiling, knowing that if he looked upwards, it would be easier to control the tears that threatened to fall.

"Now, now. Don't go getting Gallic on me," his soon to be father-in-law had said, patting him reassuringly. A knock at the door called their attention to the task at hand. "Come," Professor Cutteridge said simply, beaming at Erik. "It's time."

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the Honeymoon Cottage. Long shadows fell across the lawn; the sheep in their cote lowed a welcome as their carriage passed by. Thanks to Mrs. Dumfries' efforts, the Hibbard Cottage had been turned into a fairy tale romance. Flowers adorned every windowsill, and candles beckoned a warm welcome.

Erik lifted Elizabeth from the carriage, and as she nestled in his arms, he kissed her and touched his forehead to hers. "My wife," he whispered. "My wife." He carried her into the house as the carriage pulled away.

"Alone at last," Elizabeth giggled. "I thought we'd never get here."

He felt his palms grow moist and wished he could wipe them on his trousers, a nervous habit that he'd become uncomfortably aware of while standing in the church waiting for Elizabeth. The warmth flushed across his cheeks, under his mask, and he knew his ears were turning red. The thought of her…of their wedding day…their wedding night…. He swallowed, and stepped across the threshold with his bride in his arms.

A small fire burned merrily in the hearth, providing a cheery glow in the ancient surroundings. A bottle of French wine, two glasses, a loaf of bread, two types of cheese, and some fruit was set out for them, in case they were hungry.

"'A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou,' " Erik muttered, quoting the famous Persian poem.

She kissed his neck as he set her gently on her feet. "Oh, Erik! This is perfect." Elizabeth sat before the fire and spread her skirt around her feet. It pooled on the floor, the satin fabric catching the glow of the light. She gazed at him with eager anticipation, and he thought his heart would burst with happiness at the sight he had only imagined in his dreams. His bride. His home. His hearth. The thought of it, the very sight of it, warmed him through and through.

Now that they were alone, Erik couldn't wait to get out of the formal suit of clothes he'd been forced to wear all day, and put on one of the _galabeyas _he had brought to wear when he was alone.

Elizabeth admired how he looked. "My very own desert sheik," she said, and was surprised when she saw him bring a box out from his trunk and hand it to her. It was rather large, of a size that would often contain something from the dressmaker's, and it was wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with string. "What's this?"

"Safa asked me to give this to you. I was only to present it to you…if we married."

"Do you know what is inside?"

"I have a hunch, but no—she didn't tell me."

Carefully, Elizabeth undid the wrapping and saw that the box was from Mme Thérèse Chrétien's Dress Shop in Luxor. Nestled inside the tissue paper, she found that Safa had sent traditional Nubian wedding garments – layer upon layer of delicate gauze fabric edged with tiny bells, coins, and spangles – along with a note that read,

_My brother writes this note for me. I asked Master Erik to give this to you, as I know you and he are of one heart._

Elizabeth held up the colorful pieces of clothing. "They're…beautiful. And so exotic!"

Erik smiled at her. "Perhaps you'd care to try them on?"

"I'll be right back." She snatched up the box and headed to the bedroom. As eager as he was to please her, he always seemed to be holding back, as if he were afraid of hurting her. He was a powerful man, much stronger than Leo, and yet he had never been anything but gentle with her. As she dressed in the Arabic clothing, she wondered if she could entice Erik to drop his guard a little more, especially when making love. And so, she dressed like the Arab women she'd seen on their wedding days. She donned the undergarments, the robes and the headscarf of a native, and tied a braided cord around her waist, watching the tasseled ends sway as she walked across the room. With the freedom that the sandals allowed her, her stride became longer. She was glad to rid herself of the tight but proper Victorian boots. She felt weightless, freed as she was from the confines of layers of heavy clothing and tight laces.

When at last she peered into her looking glass, she hardly recognized herself. "I look like a feminine version of Erik," she thought. "It's perfect." She headed for the study. He'd be there, bent over the piano forte he'd bought for the cottage. Wherever they lived, he said, there must be music. When she returned a few minutes later, she was no longer the practical Egyptologist he'd first met in his shop in Luxor all those months ago. In her stead was a _houri_ – a dark eyed beauty come down from Paradise to be with him.

He stood as she entered the room, making a low whistle in appreciation of her transformation.

A quick, feminine curtsey was his reward. "Erik, I have a confession to make."

"And what would that be?" He encircled her with his arms and kissed the top of her head.

"Do you remember, when we were on _The Eye of Horus_, and Safa told you I'd been troubled with bad dreams?"

"Yes."

"Well…it wasn't exactly a bad dream. I mean…" She fumbled for the right words. "I mean, the dream was about…"

"Yes?"

"About you and me. In Ancient Egypt. You…you were a pharaoh…and I was…"

Erik's eyebrows went up. "You were what?"

"Your queen."

"Ah…but you are—"

The next thing he knew, she was sitting in his lap, pulling furiously at his shirt. She kissed his miserable face again and again before finding his mouth and kissing him passionately. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her hard, letting go of all his inhibitions. He kissed her the way the French do, catching her by surprise. He stopped when he felt her go rigid.

She'd never felt anything this exciting. _So, the teacher learns from the student. _Her hands darted beneath his flowing _galabeya_ and she pulled it away, baring his chest. She put her hands on him, feeling his nipples beneath her palms, and smiled when he arched his back, pushing against her. "That's it," she whispered. "Show me what feels good to you."

"Everything you do feels good," he sighed. "Elizabeth, we must stop this, or I'll—"

"You'll what? Do what I've been wanting you to do?"

"Temptress," he said with mock indignation. A sly smile crept over his face. "Who would have imagined that underneath the very prim, very proper façade, lay a wildcat in waiting?"

"This wildcat wants one man," she said, poking him in the chest. "And she wants him now."

"What am I to do with you?" He swatted her bottom playfully.

"Whatever you wish." She batted her eyes and clasped her hands together, pleading not entirely in jest.

"You are too much," he said, laughing.

"Sometimes, drastic measures are required. You, my darling husband, require them on a daily basis."

"Are you hinting that I am overly dramatic? After that performance you just gave?"

She wriggled against him, enjoying the feel of him beneath her and the power she had to make him forget about everything but her.

Encouraged by her boldness, he tasted the side of her neck, leaving faint teeth marks here and there. She grasped his hand and placed it on the side of her breast, and threw back her head when he responded with a moan.

"My God, woman," he muttered. "What you do to me--"

"Isn't half of what you do to me," she responded. She threw off her Nubian headpiece and shook out her long brown hair, letting it cascade over them both.

He threaded his long fingers in her hair and pushed it away from her face, tucking it behind her ears. He pulled her against his chest and whispered softly, so softly she barely heard him, "I want you. I'd stand up and carry you into the bedroom right now, but I can't get out of this damned chair."

She giggled like a schoolgirl. "I wonder how many a young woman's virtue has been saved by the English cozy chair."

"Remind me to redecorate," he growled, struggling to rise.

She lifted herself up to look down at his loose Arab robe. It was not hiding anything -- and he was naked underneath.

"That does it," he said. He lifted her up as easily as a child lifts a rag doll and stood, panting slightly, as he momentarily considered what to do with her first. He turned her in his arms until her legs dangled, holding her tight against him. She felt the length of him, pressed against his growing need, and kissed him again.

In two steps, she was against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on tight. He leaned into her as he kissed her, and let his hands wander as he if had no control over them at all. He touched her breasts, teasing the nipples, before letting one hand wander lower. He stopped and looked at her, surprised, when she parted her legs to allow him access.

"Your pants," he said slowly. "They're split!"

She chuckled. "This is how Arab women wear them. Clever girls. It makes _things_ ever so much easier."

Looking deep into her eyes, he let his hand move slowly, ever so slowly, until it rested on her provocatively. She squirmed slightly, showing him that she liked it.

He explored her with his fingers as he closed his eyes and imagined what he was feeling…what it would feel like when…

His was more than strong enough to pin her down as he moved against her, but she arched her back and, responding to her signal, he twisted around until his back was against the wall. She opened her legs fully. His muscular thighs supported them both, as the weight of her settled on him.

His eyes opened wide when he realized how close they were to becoming one. "Elizabeth…"

"Shhh," she said. "Keep going." She was drunk with passion, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of fire.

He looked at her, astonished, not sure she knew what she was doing. This was wanton behavior on both their parts, but it felt…wonderful. He stopped thinking and did as she asked. He kept going.

"More," she sighed.

He lurched forward a few steps, staggering as the feel of being buried deep inside her threatened to make him lose control. Holding her as he walked, he felt the edge of the piano hit the back of his hands and set her down on the top, letting it support her weight. He bent her backwards as she spurred him on, the piano strings humming atonally as they made love.

"Yes," she cried. "That's it!"

Deep inside him, his muscles tightened. He was losing control. "Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth." He growled, making a low and feral sound that unhinged her.

"I…oh, god!" she cried, arching her back in ecstasy. "Erik!"

"Give yourself to me once more," he moaned. "You are mine, now and always, and I am yours." He joined her over the edge.

When he could move again, he straightened up and lifted her into his arms. Then, unable to walk, he settled on the floor with her in front of the piano while they caught their breath.

She put her perfect cheek to his marred one as she whispered into his ear. "That was amazing." She rose on one elbow and kissed him. "_You_ were amazing."

"I was rough with you," Erik said. "I shouldn't have…right here…." He moved her hair away from her face again, tucking it behind her ear.

"Nonsense. Couldn't you tell how excited I was? Besides, I shan't break." She chuckled in a way that dismissed all his fears as she fixed her gaze upon him. The right side of his entire head was bright red with exertion, his scars standing out brazenly in the firelight. The hills and valleys of them ran with perspiration from his exertions.

He averted his eyes. He knew she was looking at his miserable excuse for a face. He closed his eyes tight, and a few tears escaped.

"What is it?" she asked, catching his tears with her fingertips. "What is the matter?"

"Elizabeth," he said, with ominous seriousness. "There's something I've…." He stopped.

"Yes, love?"

He scooped her into his arms and looked down the hallway with fixed determination. "We'll continue this in the bedroom. We'll be much more comfortable there."

"Erik, anywhere you want to go, I will go too."

"Well, that is good to know. I wasn't planning to leave you in here, freshly ravished, while I go to the bedroom alone."

"You may ravish me whenever you wish."

"Good, because I intend to start now."

Her laughter filled the room, and it filled his heart. _No more talk of sadness_, he thought. I have what I've always wanted.

"I love you, Erik," Elizabeth said, as he laid her down on his soft bed.

He undressed her slowly, taking his time. Curiosity was greater than his lust, and he delighted in learning all the warm, unspoken secrets that had been denied him before Elizabeth came into his life.

"I love you, too," he responded, as he settled next to her. "With all my heart." Erik threw a leg across Elizabeth as he pulled her closer to him. He breathed deeply, inhaling her sweet scent as he held her in an iron-tight grip. A contented smile played across his lips, revealing that he was not quite asleep. He'd never felt more relaxed nor happier. He felt soft, unguarded…peaceful.

She stroked his shoulder, delighting in the soft, perfect skin beneath her fingers. Down, down moved her hand, exploring gently each of his curves and muscles, until it came to rest at the small of his back. The contrast of the smoothness and the hardness of him made her bold. There was much more to learn about this man – her man – endless explorations and revelations that she would delight in discovering. This man -- her husband – was worth the effort. She pulled him towards her, indicating her willingness. Her desire.

Beneath a shock of sandy hair, he looked at her askance. His vivid green eyes feigned surprise. "Again?" he teased -- but his body gave him away. He wanted her. Erik took to his nuptial bliss with abandon. At first hesitant and afraid of disappointing her in any way, his own instincts had taken over and provided them both with a profound understanding of the joys of the flesh. Several times, in fact. Exhausted and sated, they'd collapsed in each other's arms and fallen asleep, contented in the knowledge that their love was finally, at last, irrevocably confirmed.

-0-0-0-


	39. A Night at the Museum

**Treasures of Egypt**

**Chapter 39**

**A Night at the Museum**

**Copyright © 2008  
HDKingsbury**

_Immature love says, "I love you because I need you."  
Mature love says, "I need you because I love you."_

**~ Erich Fromm**

That summer, Erik learned to love and what it meant to be loved in return--completely and unconditionally. Five years earlier, during a summer spent on the Burgundy Canal, he had learned how to live openly in society and to earn an honest day's wages. In Egypt, he had learned what true friendship was. Now, under Elizabeth's tutelage, he was continuing his education.

He learned the joy of simple things, of holding hands and quiet conversations, of engaging in scholarly debates and waking up next to the woman he loved. He learned what it was to be a husband, to have a wife he loved and adored and took pride in. A wife who was his intellectual equal, who was bright and intelligent, and who knew how to pull him out of the dark moods that were fewer and farther between, until he suspected that the day would come when they would never trouble him again.

He learned to accept himself. Though he continued to wear the mask when in public or in the company of others, when he and Elizabeth were alone, he quickly tossed it aside because his face didn't trouble her. And if it didn't trouble her, why should it trouble him? In fact, she made a point of letting him know how much she loved it--because it was part of him, and she loved him so very much.

They enjoyed their quiet times in the Cotswolds, away from London and prying society eyes. They kept their marriage out of the papers, holding it a secret to be treasured and not shared. Both knew that soon enough, there would be questions--both spoken and silent--from Elizabeth's old acquaintances, but there was no need to face them any sooner than necessary.

A steady stream of letters flowed back and forth between Burford and Luxor, including congratulatory notes to the newlyweds. "You belong together," A'aqil had written. "It's about time you realized it." Elizabeth was thrilled to learn that Talibah was teaching Safa to write, and the sweetest thing was a short note from the young girl, saying, "Please come home, Sitt. We miss you."

Summer faded into autumn. Elizabeth and Erik gathered apples from the tree in their garden for Mrs. Dumfries to turn into pies, jellies, butter and cider. The days grew shorter and cooler, and although Erik found himself missing the daylight, he welcomed the nighttime for a different reason than he had in the past. No longer was it his refuge: It was his respite, for in the darkness, he found Elizabeth's loving arms.

One day, a letter arrived from Elizabeth's London solicitor, Mr. Alistair McKinnon. He wrote that Leo's investments continued to prosper, and so requested a meeting. A date was set, and at the appointed time and place--her father's cottage--it took place. Erik had been apprehensive about the meeting, certain that the man would question Elizabeth's sudden marriage, and so went to great lengths to ensure that any questions would be put to rest.

Upon the lawyer's arrival, Erik acted at ease. Much to Elizabeth's amazement, he even seemed friendly and approachable. Introductions were made and tea was served, but it was apparent from the man's expression that Erik had been right: McKinnon harbored concerns about his client's sudden marriage. Elizabeth did her best to reassure McKinnon, but it was Erik's insistence that anything his wife brought to the marriage was to remain hers and hers alone-- including any inheritance from her late husband--that convinced him that Erik had his wife's best interests at heart. Neither did it hurt that Erik also produced statements from his own bankers proving his solvency, those being the _coup de grace_ to any objections the dour Scot could possibly raise. He was also impressed with the fact that Erik had already drawn up a will leaving his entire estate to Elizabeth, and had even had it notarized in Burford. By the end of the meeting, McKinnon left satisfied that his client's new husband was neither a mountebank nor a swindler, but was genuinely concerned with his wife's well being.

"You, sir, are a true gentleman," McKinnon said as he shook Erik's hand enthusiastically. "The genuine article," he added. "I wish you and Mrs. Rien all the best."

When he disappeared from sight, Elizabeth nudged Erik, who had remained frozen by the door with his hand raised in a farewell salute. "He's gone," she chided. "You can come inside now."

"It was easier than I expected," Erik mumbled, a grim line of determination plastered across his face. "Are you sure he is from a reputable firm? Seemed rather a pushover to me."

"The fact that you shoved your assets in his face didn't hurt your case." She growled as she threw herself in a chair. "Really, Erik. Was it necessary to point out that your investments alone are worth ten times what my little inheritance will ever earn? Not to mention your properties, your business, and your personal collection of artifacts."

The grim line twitched. "It may not have been necessary, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. It was worth it, seeing that little man squirm." He swigged the dregs of his tea and laughed. "Teach him to suggest that I am after your money. And really, Elizabeth, did you not find it insulting for him to suggest that a woman of your intelligence could be fooled by a fortune hunter?"

She snickered. "My dear, you are making too much of this. I've known Alistair McKinnon for years. He's only looking out for my interests."

Erik made a low growl of dissatisfaction. "If you ever were swindled, I'd hope it would be by someone better than I am."

"I'll remember you said this, next time I am in the market for a husband." She winked at him when he glared at her. It took many, many kisses to charm him out of the black mood that followed.

That night, Erik exhausted himself making love to her, but not before ensuring that she was so satisfied that she was unable to lift a finger to turn out the light on the bedside stand. He gathered her in his arms and covered them both with a downy quilt--as if they needed a blanket to keep them warm. A few hours later, when all was still and quiet, he was awakened by a muffled groan. She was making the most mournful sounds, crying in her sleep and calling his name.

"Beth," he said quietly. "You're having a bad dream." He touched her bare shoulder carefully.

She tossed and turned, struggling to awaken. "I can't lose him, too!" she cried. "Oh, no, no, no! Erik!" She grabbed at him, and when she felt the rough map of scars on his face beneath her hand, she awakened and stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Erik? I…it was … a terrible, terrible dream." She gasped for air as tears began to flow even harder. Her heart pounded in her throat.

He lifted her trembling form and held her tenderly before she threw her arms round him. "There, there," he said, patting her on the back. "It was only a dream."

"A dream! It was a nightmare," she said, choking on the words. "You…you were gone. I lost you! I lost you…" she moaned pitifully.

"You can't get rid of me as easily as that," he chuckled. "I'm here to stay."

Even in the darkness, she could see his eyes reflecting the moonlight that pierced the curtains, moonlight that cast eerie shadows about the room. "You don't understand. All this talk of death and wills and inheritance…Erik, I dreamed you died, and left me all alone."

He frowned. "It was just a dream, Beth. I'm here, beside you. You're safe. We're together."

"I lost one husband," she said fiercely. "I'll not lose you, too. I couldn't bear it. Oh, Erik. Promise me you'll never leave me." She kissed him a thousand times, across his gnarled cheek and over his furrowed brow. "Never!"

He was puzzled. Passion, he understood, accepted even, but he was only beginning to understand how much she loved him. "My own little wife," he whispered reverently, almost disbelievingly. "How could I ever leave you? And even if something were to happen to me, do you think I'd let you go so easily? I love you, Beth. I love you beyond…" he searched his soul for the right word, "…beyond eternity."

The tension drained from her body. "I feel that way, too, Erik. I love you so much it frightens me sometimes. I _need_ you."

He chuckled. "Need me? You don't need me. I know you, perhaps better than you know yourself. You're a warrior queen, that's what you are. Right out of the legends of the ancient Egyptians." He thought back to the first time he met her, in his courtyard in Luxor, and how she had studied the statues that surrounded the reflecting pool. "Sekhmet is powerless in your wake."

She shuddered. "'Spirited lioness.' That's what _he_ called me."

He drew back slightly, tensing. "Who? Who said that?"

"That man. Asmari." She closed her eyes tight and shook her head. "That's what the dream was about. I dreamt that when you fought Twar…." She swallowed and buried her face in his chest. "He won! Oh, Erik," she cried. "It was horrible."

"You never have to worry about those men again…never!" he said angrily. "I'd never let anyone hurt you…never again." His terrible guilt at her kidnapping plagued his dreams, too, but he would never tell her. Not ever.

To calm her, to soothe her nerves, he sang for her. It was the lullaby she had sung to him when he was dangerously near death in the desert, in the throes of the scorpion's poison. It lulled her to sleep, eventually, and when her breathing evened out and he was sure she was asleep, Erik allowed himself to rest.

_She loves me_. _She really loves me_, he thought, as the awesome responsibility of someone else's psyche settled on his shoulders like a mantle. He rather liked the way it felt. He was warm through and through by the thought of it.

-0-0-0-

Later that week, more letters arrived from London. These were from the directors and curators at the British Museum, requesting that all concerned parties should meet to discuss the opening of the new Leonidas Brackenstall Gallery and the artifacts that would be displayed within. Crate upon crate had arrived, and all were impressed by the quality of the goods. Elizabeth and Erik knew that eventually, a trip to London would be in order, but were happily surprised when the gentlemen from the museum agreed to come up to Burford. Many of them had worked with Professor Alpheus Cutteridge in years past and were looking forward to renewing old acquaintances.

_Besides,_ they wrote, _a trip to the Cotswolds would be a delightful break from London_.

They listened with interest to Erik's ideas on how best to display the objects. Together, they worked out an architectural motif for the gallery, and planned lavish decorations that would make the gala opening a night to remember. Soon, night fell and Alpheus escorted the gentlemen to the Swan Inn at Swinbrook, two miles from the village of Burford. The full moon would provide ample light on the clear autumn night, making the walk all the more pleasant. Millicent accompanied them, hoping "to walk off that heavy meal," as she put it. Secretly, she was mildly interested in the tall man who kept stealing glances of her when he thought she wasn't looking.

Alone with his little wife at last, Erik's eyes twinkled as they settled on her. "The only thing left to decide is how to decorate _you _for the gala," he said mischievously. "I had some ideas for a set of Egyptian-styled jewelry to accompany those earrings Riemenschneider left you, but I fear there may not be enough time to get this done."

He produced several folded papers from his breast pocket, and smoothed them out on the tabletop while Elizabeth edged closer. He grinned, obviously pleased with himself, and pointed out a significant feature of the design. "The ducks in the earrings symbolize--" He stopped speaking when he realized she was looking at him and not the fantastic images set before her.

"True love," she said, finishing for him. "They symbolize mating for life, finding one's perfect friend--and lover." She studied the rest of the designs, intrigued. "What's this?" she asked wonderingly. "Why it…it looks like…Oh, Erik, a tiara! It's simply splendid. And you designed it yourself!" Tears glistened in her bright eyes. "I love it."

"Choose all of them, or none of them. We can start over, if you don't see anything you like." His head touched hers as they poured over the sketches. "The stones in these designs should be lapis of the highest quality, offset by darkest carnelian. The framework will be purest gold, of course, and will be enhanced by a series of ankhs. Perhaps we will break with the ancients and accentuate them with rose-cut diamonds instead of ordinary quartz. And maybe some pearls. Nothing is too good for my wife."

He revealed a second set of designs. "And here is an idea for a collar in style of the pharaonic queens. It will be set with lapis, turquoise, carnelian, amethyst, and onyx. And perhaps some--Hey, what's this? No more tears, remember?" He brushed away a teardrop and pulled her closer.

"You are too good to me." She took all of his designs and began to examine them closely. "This is fascinating. I like this snake, holding a large, egg-like pearl in its mouth. The entire body will drape around my neck, with the head and the tail twining together to hold the necklace in place. It's simple, yet sophisticated and elegant." She gazed at him adoringly. "My husband is very clever, indeed, and very much aware of the latest fashions."

"Now that he has a beautiful wife to adorn, he is doing his best to please her," Erik agreed. "What do you think of the bracelet?"

"It's a cartouche," she said, peering at the hieroglyphs. The sketch contained ancient Egyptian symbols which were protectively encircled by a thick border. "It has a tether, a hand, a shelter, and a loaf of bread. Oh, Erik, how sweet! Are you saying what I think you mean? "

"The text isn't perfect. I'm not the expert that you are." He brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. "I meant to say, you are my shelter, my sustenance, my friend. Always."

"Always," she echoed, lifting his hand to her lips.

-0-0-0-

Mrs. Dumfries fretted. "It ain't fittin'," she complained bitterly. "A respectable couple such as yerselves should have more laundry." When Elizabeth only shook her head in reply, the disgruntled housekeeper shuffled from the room, talking to herself about indecencies of the younger generation.

Erik, who had been hiding behind the morning paper, looked up. "What's that all about?"

"Our dear housekeeper has noticed the lack of night clothes in the wash," Elizabeth replied quietly. "She's scandalized."

He grinned as he watched a most becoming blush spread across her cheeks. "Perhaps we should give the old girl a break. You know, the grand opening isn't far off. How would you like to leave for London earlier than we had planned? I've never seen the city, outside the train station on my way here last summer. I confess, I'm almost looking forward to it."

"I'd love to show London to you. Besides the museum, there's a magnificent botanic garden."

"A few days touring the sights would be an interesting diversion. Besides, it will give me time to meet with the jeweler who is making your parure, to ensure that it is exactly as you specified."

"You shouldn't have ordered the entire collection. You're too generous to me, darling."

He sighed and placed his hand over hers, glad that she didn't yet know about the brooch he'd added to the set. It would make a nice surprise at dinner one evening. And afterwards? There would be no talk of night clothes.

-0-0-0-

Millicent and Alpheus offered to join them in London a few days later, allowing Erik and Beth a little more of the privacy the newlyweds coveted. Upon arriving in London, Erik sought the best accommodations and soon they were on their way to the Brown Hotel, a short walk from Buckingham Palace in the West End. A prominent young American, Theodore Roosevelt, was rumored to be staying there awaiting his marriage, literally to "the girl next door." It was also well-known that Queen Victoria often dined there, and that Alexander Graham Bell had made his first telephone call in London from the Brown. One of the first lifts had been installed there less than twenty years earlier, and Erik was looking forward to seeing the equipment. Telephones and lifts were unheard of in Luxor, and he was itching to invest in the new technology. The place would be bustling, especially in comparison to the calm, quiet Cotswolds, but he was willing to put up with it

Beth delighted in watching Erik take to the city. He seemed to be able to adapt to any environment, but clearly the city offered many enticements to a man with his insatiable thirst for knowledge. But upon arrival, after sending their luggage ahead to the hotel, their first stop had been at London's most famous couturier's shop.

She balked at his largesse. "I don't want _haute couture_," she griped, resisting every step of the way as he pulled her through the doorway. "It's unnecessarily expensive; it's uncomfortable; and most importantly, it isn't practical."

A pained expression crossed his face. "Indulge me. I'm sure Mister Worth has something that will please you."

"Mister Worth," she repeated dumbly. "Mister George Frederick Worth? The royal couturier?"

"Is there another?" he asked with good humor, noting that recognition was setting in. "If he pleases the Queen of England, he is good enough for my wife." He kissed her hand, lingering longer than necessary to send a shiver of delight throughout her body. "We are married now," he said firmly. "There is nothing improper in a husband seeing to his wife's…every need, is there?"

Sure enough, Worth was able to provide the modest clothing that characterized Elizabeth; at the same time, the clothing was aesthetic enough to appeal to Erik's sense of design. Elizabeth had never looked lovelier. "Think of it as an investment in quality," he whispered to her.

"These clothes will never go out of fashion," the dressing assistant had assured her as she helped Elizabeth into a light brown walking dress. "And I must say, I have never seen anyone look lovelier in Mr. Worth's designs than you. No mum, if you don't mind my saying so, forget about prêt-à-porter. It doesn't do you justice. By-the-by, mum, you being new in town an' all, do be careful where you go at night. You never know who's lurking about, up to no good."

"I'll be safe," she chuckled. "Mr. Rien will see to that." She turned and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her mouth formed a small circle of surprise as a small gasp escaped her. "I hardly recognize myself."

Erik beamed with pride when the new Mrs. Rien emerged. While she was being fitted, he had been measured for the evening clothes he would wear to the gala, and he had chosen colorful fabrics for a few new waistcoats while he waited for his wife. He dropped a swatch of bright blue cloth amid a pile of rejects as he watched her with open admiration.

Worth himself came out to greet his new best customers. "Your parcels will be delivered to your hotel, monsieur," he assured them, as he ushered them into a private parlor for tea and other refreshments. He glanced briefly at Erik's mask, but it was the fine suit that caught Worth's attention. After a few moments of small talk, during which Elizabeth mentioned planning to return to Luxor, he boldly ventured, "My compliments to your couturier in Egypt. I had no idea that such talent dwelt so far from civilization." Erik had only laughed good-naturedly in response. It seemed that nothing and no one could intrude on his happiness.

Much to his disappointment, however, Elizabeth insisted on wearing plain dresses with nondescript hats and partial veils in public. "We're alone at last, and I don't want to see anyone I know," she said pleasantly. "I don't want old acquaintances intruding on our happiness." He had been a little hurt, assuming she was ashamed of him and of their sudden marriage, or that she might want to hide from Leo's family, until she added, "Besides which, it's rather fun wandering the streets of London incognito."

That, he could understand. He adjusted his mask, remembering the feel of soft Egyptian cotton on his mangled flesh. "Perhaps we should dress as Arabians, and pretend we are tourists from a foreign land."

She adjusted the stickpin in his cravat. She had given it to him after their wedding, and it featured a modest aquamarine cabochon that matched the color of his eyes. "Aquamarine stands for a long and happy marriage," she had told him, "and the ancient Egyptians believed it guaranteed marital bliss."

There had been no need for night clothes that night, either.

-0-0-0-

**Lloyd's Illustrated London Newspaper  
**Society Column  
Saturday October 23, 1886

**The British Museum.** _We are informed on the best authority that to-night, Elizabeth Rien will attend the dedication of the Leonidas Brackenstall Gallery of Egyptian Antiquity, named in honor of her late husband. The gallery is expected to house an incomparable collection of Egyptian antiquities, many of them excavated by the young archaeologist himself. His widow was recently remarried to noted antiquities dealer Erik Rien, who resides in Luxor. M. Rien, a longtime resident of Egypt, is rumored to be a survivor of the recent rebellion in Khartoum, which sadly took the life of our beloved Major-General Charles George Gordon. We are pleased to inform our readers that there is no truth whatsoever to the report we mentioned yesterday, and that Lord and Lady Brackenstall will, in fact, attend the gala, along with their sons, Achilles and Hector. _

-0-0-0-

Elizabeth glanced at the folded newspaper perched on the edge of her dressing table, wishing she'd never seen it. "Good," she said though clenched teeth. "It's out. I'm glad they know, and every last one of their snooty, blueblood friends, too."

"Of course they know. You sent the Brackenstalls a letter informing them of our marriage a week ago." He quirked an eyebrow at her, noticing her slight jitteriness. "Didn't you?"

She nodded. "They never responded. I don't know what I expected from them. Well wishes? Perhaps a kind word? I realize our marriage was…unconventional…but you'd think they'd be glad to have me off their hands."

"Don't tell me my brave, practical wife is nervous," Erik teased, as he fastened the clasp of her new necklace. The luster of gold and gemstones gleamed softly in the gaslight, set off by the warmth of her peaches-and-cream complexion.

"Of course not," she replied as she studied her reflection in the dresser mirror, admiring the way the blue stones matched the midnight-blue silk of her dress. Her hair was swept up off her neck and knotted on top of her head, with small curls tumbling down over her forehead and softening the look. Golden highlights created by the Egyptian sun could still be seen throughout her normally light-brown hair, and set off the sparkle of the tiara Erik was placing on her head and that matched the exquisite necklace and brooch he had given her earlier. Each piece of the parure complemented the ancient earrings perfectly, thanks to his careful attention to detail and the superb craftsmanship of Her Majesty's jeweler, Joseph Kitching.

She caught Erik's expression reflected in the mirror. "Very well, I am a little bit nervous, but only because Lord Brackenstall can be a very imposing man."

"As imposing…as I?" her husband asked, drawing himself up to his full height.

She turned and smiled up at him, allowing Erik to lift her to her feet and into his arms. "You're imposing in a very different and much more pleasing way."

"We could have ignored the Brackenstalls all together," he said, knowing this would never have been the case. The gallery they were going to tonight was named in honor of their late son. To snub them on this occasion had not been an option--at least, not to his wife, who was, after all, an honorable woman. "I remember when you wrote of how you were treated, but you mustn't let that trouble you. I'll be with you--at your side."

They were quiet during the ride to the British Museum. Alpheus and Millicent had arrived earlier in the day, and Erik had arranged rooms for them on another floor at their hotel. Tonight, they were riding in a separate cab, allowing the newlyweds a little more time alone before the gala began.

"This is exciting enough without having us underfoot," Alpheus had joked. "Don't you worry about us tonight. Millie wants to see her new beau, and I have plenty of old friends to see."

"He means the mummies," Millicent explained, rolling her eyes. "He'll spend all his time in the stacks, catching up with his colleagues at the museum. You two run along; we'll catch up with you there."

Erik tugged at the white tie that suddenly seemed too small for his neck, while Elizabeth watched the bustling activity that increased as they neared their destination. Elegant coaches pulled up the driveway, and the occupants disembarked with an air of studied _ennui_. Dressed to the nines, these aristocrats and dignitaries mingled with museum officials who were eager to unveil the new collection. The excitement was almost tangible. A string trio provided light music as the guests arrived, and servers glided about the room bearing silver trays with canapés and crystal glasses filled with sparkling wine.

It seemed to Elizabeth that all of London society was at the opening of the Leonidas Brackenstall Gallery. She suspected it had more to do with the quality of artifacts, with all their gold and lapis lazuli, than interest in her late husband. A brief ceremony took place at the beginning of the evening, that included various officials at the museum praising the late Leonidas Brackenstall and the collection donated in his name.

"I still feel bad, not giving poor Herr Riemenschneider credit for most of these magnificent pieces," Elizabeth said in _soto voce_ to Erik, not wishing to be overheard.

"Nonsense. Trust me; old Ehrhart would have enjoyed pulling the wool over London Society's collective eyes. Even now, he's probably looking down--or is it up?--on all of this, laughing to himself at the Brackenstalls' being forced to accept the possibility that Leo wasn't the fool they'd thought him to be. As to why you did not mention the collection sooner to Lord and Lady B? Well, what difference does it make? It's here now, and that's all that matters."

The gallery was every bit as splendid as she had hoped it would be. Erik's architectural plans had provided the perfect setting for the showpieces, the lighting hitting each one dramatically, showing off its features. She blinked back a few unshed tears.

"It's a fine tribute, Erik. Leo would have been pleased." She squeezed his hand discreetly. "Thank you for helping me make this dream come true."

Their intimate moment was soon interrupted. "Eliza! How good to see you!"

Erik watched, surprised at the jovial, athletic young man who approached them with such familiarity and then turned to his wife. "You know him?"

She grinned and nodded, and held her hand out to the man who accepted it and bestowed a polite kiss upon its back. "Hector, how good to see you. Allow me to introduce you. Erik, this is Hector Brackenstall, Leo's oldest brother. Hector, my new husband, Erik Rien."

Hector shot out a hand and shook Erik's. "Pleased to meet you," he said, grinning. "Heard that Eliza here had gotten married again. Good for you, my dear," he said to Elizabeth. "A woman needs a man to watch over her," he said, a knowing glint in his eyes. A footman passed by with a tray of champagne glasses, and Hector swiftly snagged two, offering one to Elizabeth.

"Care for some?" he asked.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth, accepting it rather than watch Hector, who had a reputation for enjoying his champagne, imbibe too much.

"Have you said hello to Mater and Pater?" Hector asked.

Elizabeth hesitated. "We didn't exactly part on the best of terms." She knew Hector well enough to be honest with him…to a point.

Hector chuckled. "You know, the old man's bark has always been worse than his bite. Besides, Achilles and I knew you were a good wife to Leo. He didn't realize what a gem he had in you. And good for you, for deciding to go on living and not shutting yourself away from society."

Erik was silently standing by during all of this, taking everything in. He listened carefully as Hector continued talking.

"So sorry to have missed Leo's funeral," Leo's brother was saying.

"I understand. I was told you were out of the country," Elizabeth continued. "Something about a new post with the Foreign Office?"

The big man grinned proudly. "Yes, and got it all on my own. No help from the old man."

Elizabeth suggested that she and Erik give Hector a tour of some of the more important pieces. The three of them strolled throughout the exhibits, her once brother-in-law suitably impressed.

"Seems my little brother had more sense than we gave him credit for," he said at last. "And here we thought he was chasing rainbows. How did he ever find all this treasure?" Hector turned his attention to Erik. "Did you have a hand in this, Mr. Rien?"

"I may have donated the odd piece here and there, to help round out the collection," he explained, as if his contributions to the gallery were meaningless. "Mr. Brackenstall came to me, asking if I would help fund an expedition. He had come upon an old map, showing the location of an ancient funerary cache." He lowered his head sympathetically. "I did not know him well, but he…was a very earnest young man, eager to make his mark on the world."

"Yes," Hector said, finishing his wine in one gulp. "This is certainly a fine way to remember him, Eliza. You've outdone yourself."

They chatted some more, catching sight of Alpheus and Millicent occasionally, when Lord Brackenstall came to join them. Good manners prevented the man from being a boor, but Erik could read the aristocrat's true feelings on his face.

"So, you're French," Lord Brackenstall said before anyone had had a chance at introductions, his voice booming as he made no effort to hide the obvious disdain he had for the race.

"Frenchman by birth, but a citizen of the world by choice," Erik countered, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Hector gave Erik a jolly slap on the back and snagged a two more glasses of champagne, offering one to Erik this time. "That's what I like to hear!" He saw the look on his father's face and smirked. "Pater, allow me to formally introduce everyone."

When Erik was introduced, he made no effort at feigned affection. There was no acknowledging nod of the head, no offer of a friendly handshake. Silently, he enjoyed seeing that the slight snub hit home.

Lord Brackenstall sputtered, but quickly regained his composure. He appraised Erik's regal bearing, his aristocratic mien, and noble demeanor. "Rien...Rien. Of the Cartageña Riens?"

Erik cocked a brow. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Brackenstall, assuming Erik's non-answer was an acknowledgment that he was a peer, started laughing slowly. "Ha!" He paused, and then there was another, "Ha-ha!" He turned to Elizabeth. "We have a rarity among us--a modest man. Elizabeth, allow me to congratulate you. You've done quite well for yourself."

Erik gave a gracious smile to his wife. "It is I who have done well, Brackenstall. Elizabeth has done me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage."

Brackenstall snorted derisively and Elizabeth gritted her teeth, while Hector whispered to her, "Remember. All bark, no bite."

"You remind me of your son," Erik said, staring down his nose at Brackenstall. He watched as a fine bead of perspiration began to bead upon the gruff man's brow.

Brackenstall bristled. "Leo was nothing like I am."

"As you say. What brings him to mind is that even he, though reckless and immature, recognized Elizabeth for the lady that she is. It is the mark of a gentleman to treat everyone, however low born, as he would wish to be treated."

This time, it was Hector who let out the laugh as his father excused himself. "There are other guests I must see," Brackenstall said curtly, and walked away.

"Well done, old chap," Hector said, congratulating Erik. "I dare say you put the old man in his place. He can be a bit full of himself. Think he takes all this title nonsense seriously. Well, pip pip, cheerio, and all that folderol. I see Achilles has just arrived--fashionably late, as usual. I'll try to steer him your way." And with that, Hector headed across the room and out of sight in the midst of the crowd.

"Is that what you had to deal with throughout your married life?" Erik asked, relieved to have the Brackenstalls out of the way. "The insufferable prig. Who does he think he is?"

Elizabeth chuckled behind her fan. "You have no idea! But rather than dwell upon them, take me around the room and show me your favorite pieces in the exhibit."

In the background, a small chamber ensemble had taken over for the string trio and was playing some Handel. As Erik and Elizabeth walked about the exhibit, they could pick up snatches of conversation among the aristocrats in attendance, mostly about the splendor of the collection and how proud the Brackenstalls must be--but, perhaps inevitably, there was gossip as well.

"It must ease their loss, knowing their son will always be remembered."

"And so splendidly!"

"Did you hear? His widow has already remarried!"

"How brazen! Leo's barely cold in the ground."

"Is it true her new husband is a war hero? I heard that the Mahdis got him at Khartoum, that he barely escaped with his life."

"They say his face was so horribly scarred by the devils that he must wear a ghastly mask to keep from frightening children--and horses!"

"How can she stand it?"

"He has money, they say. That compensates for ugliness."

"But to marry so soon! It's indecent, I tell you. Indecent!"

"Oh! Elizabeth. I didn't see you there. We were just commenting on this remarkable memorial to your late husband."

"We'd love to meet your new husband."

Erik impressed Elizabeth by being charming to them all--even the ones who had made catty little remarks when they thought they weren't being overheard--and when they asked him about his war wounds, Erik deftly changed the conversation. He was unflappable, debonair.

"Let us not dwell on such unpleasantness, _Mesdames_," he said, nonchalantly. "Tonight, we are celebrating the life of Leonidas Brackenstall." He raised his glass of champagne, and the whole room followed suit. "To Leonidas Brackenstall, whose love of Egypt and quest for treasure has graced us all. May he rest in peace."

He was sipping from his glass when a voice asked, "You knew my son?" Erik recognized the woman from Elizabeth's earlier descriptions, a person of aristocratic bearing, dressed all in black. No doubt about it, this was Lady Beatrice. He heard Elizabeth's sharp intake of breath, and realized that his wife had not heard her former mother-in-law slither up beside them during the toast.

"It was Erik who led the expedition that found Leo after he…went missing," Elizabeth said, maintaining cool politeness towards Lady Beatrice. "Erik nearly died on that journey," she went on to explain sadly. "He is the one to thank for repatriating Leo, and for gathering the collection we see tonight."

"I see," Leo's mother sneered. She looked at Erik as if inspecting an item for purchase. "You have no doubt…rewarded him for his…kindness."

At that moment, a slightly younger version of Hector came up and joined the group. "Now, now, Mother," the young man said teasingly. "No need for any of that." To Erik, he said, "Allow me to introduce myself. Achilles Brackenstall, at your service, sir. My brother has been filling me in on…" he looked knowingly at his mother "…_everything._" He turned back to his mother, more serious this time. "Leo gave his life for the artifacts you see before you, rather than return to England empty-handed," he hissed. "Nothing he ever did would have pleased you."

"Let it go," Elizabeth said quietly, trying to avoid a scene. "It isn't worth the effort."

Achilles offered Erik his hand. "Well, on behalf of us all, I thank you. Most of all, I thank you for bringing Leo back to us, and for putting the spark back in Elizabeth's eyes. You're a lucky man, Mr. Rien."

Erik decided that, in spite of their parents, Hector and Achilles weren't such bad sorts after all. He shook Achilles' hand. "The luckiest of men," he agreed.

-0-0-0-

Later, back at their splendid hotel, as Erik was helping Elizabeth remove her jewelry, they were able to share a moment of peace.

"I'm glad that's over," she muttered. "I never want to see those people again."

He kissed her neck where, moments earlier, a fortune in jewels had been. "Tonight, you truly laid Leo to rest. From this moment on, we leave the past where it belongs. No more looking back."

She reached behind her and ran her hand along his jaw, letting it rest on his cheek while she looked at their reflection in the mirror. "That sounds too good to be true. Somehow, the past never seems to stay buried, no matter how much we wish it would."

"We have more important matters to discuss," he said, as he slowly pulled down the shoulder of her gown, revealing a soft shoulder. He traced the roundness of it with a fingertip, barely grazing the surface of her skin as he moved it lower and lower. "Did you know, for instance, that tomorrow we will have been married four months?" He pulled her close to him, watching their reflection as she conformed to his body.

"Four of the happiest months of my life," she said, leaning her head back on his broad chest. She giggled as her dress slid down her hips and pooled around her feet. She hadn't even realized he loosened it. Erik had worked his magic once again.

"Show me," he said in a seductive purr. "Show me how happy you've been."

He freed her from her corset and other unmentionables, marveling at the number of garments she wore beneath the elegant evening gown. "Boning…steel…good lord! How can you stand to wear this? I must free you, my dear, free you at once!" Garters were tossed over his shoulder, followed by stockings of sheerest silk, and when she was completely naked, he sat back on his haunches and admired his handiwork.

"No fair," she said, tugging at his tie.

He frowned playfully. "Do you have any idea how difficult full evening dress is to manage?" He turned to show off the back of his tailcoat. He made a game of taking off his clothes and throwing them in the air with utter abandon. They landed helter-skelter around the room while Beth laughed at his antics. The patent leather dress shoes landed with a thud and bounced perilously close to the fire, and the smell of warm linseed oil that had made the shoes glossy filled the air.

Finally, all that remained was the mask and the wig. She watched appreciatively as the firelight sent shadows that licked at his well-defined muscles, especially his taut derriere and his other manly attributes. He reached for the lamp to turn it out.

"Don't." She shook her head adamantly and knelt on the bed in front of him. "Don't turn it out. I want to see you while we make love."

Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. He closed his eyes tightly as she gently removed the mask and kissed his poor cheek, and then carefully removed the wig. She touched the places on his face and scalp that appeared to be irritated, tsking over each red spot. She reached into a satchel near the bed and withdrew a jar of almond-scented cream, and touched a small amount carefully to each sore.

That night, she ministered to Erik in a way she had never done before.

She rubbed the cream between her hands to warm and liquefy it, and she used the oil to massage Erik from head to toe – front and back. He made sounds of satisfaction when she rubbed the kinks out of his muscles, snickered when she found a ticklish place, and soon found himself in such a state of relaxation, he thought he'd drift to sleep. But then, she touched him another way, and his hunger for her awakened.

In their four months together, he'd been bold, willing to experiment with physical pleasure in any way she wanted. But tonight she made love to _him_, and she lavished her attention on each part of his body that she'd learned pleased him the most. When he was dying to toss her on her back and take her hard, she held up the jar of cream and said, "Do you trust me?"

"With all my heart," he answered, breathless and painfully aroused.

"Then, try this. Lie on your side," she commanded. When he looked askance at her, she explained, "I've read about this in the ancient papyrii. It is supposed to be…incomparable…for a man. If you don't like it, or if you want to stop, all you need do is tell me. I won't do anything you don't want to do."

His uncertainty was clear. "Beth…."

"Shhh," she said, as she began to please him.

He tensed, jolting in the bed. "What are you doing?"

She laughed, a low, sultry sound that made him want her like he had never wanted her before. "Remember that place you found inside me – the one that made me…. Remember?" She redoubled her efforts with him in her mouth.

He groaned when she pulled away. "Mmmm," he said, unable to speak.

"According to the ancients, there's a similar spot in men," she said, with more certainty than she felt. "Will you let me find it? Will you let me do this for you?"

He twined his fingers in her hair, gently urging her back towards the place that needed her most. "Yes…" he said. He trusted her, relaxed with her touch, but this night, she took lovemaking to another level. She was determined to return the attention he had lavished on her, to show him the heights of pleasure that he had elicited in her. That night, their love was experimental, erotic, and utterly fulfilling.

"Beth…Beth…my darling," he said again and again, sinking back on the pillows. He pulled her with him, still shaking from the force of his release. He held her as she stroked his arm and whispered sweet nothings in his ear.

After he had a chance to recover, he picked up the jar of cream and looked at it admiringly. "Beth," he said hopefully, "What else did those papyrii say?"

-0-0-0-


	40. The Treasures of Egypt

**Treasures of Egypt**

**Chapter 40  
The Treasures of Egypt**

_My heart's love is on the far side.__  
The river is between our bodies;__The waters are mighty at flood-time,  
A crocodile waits in the shallows._

_I enter the water and brave the waves,__  
My heart is strong on the deep;  
__The crocodile seems like a mouse to me,  
The flood as land to my feet._

_It is her love that gives me strength,  
It makes a water-spell for me;  
I gaze at my heart's desire,  
As she stands facing me!_

_My lady has come, my heart exults,  
My arms spread out to embrace her;  
My heart bounds in its place,  
Like the red fish in its pond._

_  
O night, be mine forever,  
Now that my queen has come!_

"It Is Her Love that Gives Me Strength,"  
~Ancient Egyptian Love Song

-0-0-0-

Once affairs in London were taken care of, Erik and Elizabeth returned to Burford. Change was in the air. The skies were still blue, the sun still shone brightly, but the breezes were shifting and coming out of the north. High autumn in the Cotswolds was a beautiful time of year, with its rolling hills and hidden valley. The barley ripened under the sun and was harvested, and the vast patchwork of farmlands was broken up by the stands of beech and maple trees, their leaves turning the countryside to shades of gold and bronze. At night, the temperatures grew cold, calling for more wood to be put in the fireplaces. On several mornings, there were touches of frost that quickly burned off once the sun rose.

The animals recognized that the seasons were changing, too. Deer could often be seen coming out of the woods to nibble on the grains left in the fields. Squirrels scampered about as they collected the acorns that fell from nearby oak trees, driving Min to distraction as he tried to chase them down. The sheep that dotted the hillsides sensed the changes, too, and showed the good sense to stay closer to home.

Erik and Elizabeth took advantage of the warm days that remained. Often, they spent their afternoons on long walks, admiring the early autumn beauty, each knowing that winter would soon be upon them. The topic had been discussed between them on numerous occasions, and both had already agreed to the splitting of their time between England and Egypt.

"I think it is time we went home," Erik said one afternoon, his thoughts turning more frequently back to warmth of Egypt, and the comfort of his home in Luxor. He may have been born in these more temperate climates, but had come to crave the warmth of northern Africa.

Elizabeth agreed, gazing admiringly at the bouquet of wildflowers she had been picking as they walked. She had loved her time back in the Cotswolds, and would not have traded these months for anything—even the not-so-pleasant times. This was the land of her ancestors, and it had helped to heal her once-broken heart and spirit. And it was here that she and Erik had, at last, acknowledged their love. Burford and its surroundings would always have a special place in her heart, but like her husband, she too missed the land of the pharaohs and the dear friends who were waiting for them.

That evening, they had supper with the Cutteridges. At the diner table, Erik surprised all by not simply announcing their imminent departure, which was not unexpected, but by inviting Alpheus and Millicent to accompany them.

"You are welcome to spend the winter season with us in Luxor," Erik said to Professor Cutteridge. "Many Europeans do so, but you already know this."

"I'm not sure," the professor hesitated. "I mean, it's not that I wouldn't like to visit Egypt at least one more time, but I don't wish to be a burden to the two of you. I mean, you're still newlyweds and all."

"Nonsense, Father," said Elizabeth. "Erik has a guest suite…that is, _we_ have a guest suite. It would be like old times. You, me and Ra'id."

The older man's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Ra'id's still with you?"

"Don't you remember? I told you how he married Erik's young housekeeper."

"He is one of the best," the professor said, recalling younger days digging in the Egyptian sands, a young Ra'id accompanying him. "Quick wit. Full of intelligence." And in the end, Professor Cutteridge gave in, not because Erik and Elizabeth insisted that his presence would be welcome, but because the lure of Egypt was too great for him to resist. Millicent, however, was another matter.

"Her new beau has invited her down to London for the season," her brother said, gently teasing his sister, who was blushing furiously.

"What's this?" Elizabeth asked, pretending to be shocked. "First Aunt Drusilla and her colonel, and now you?"

"Tut, tut, girl," Millicent said, suddenly embarrassed. "Nobody's talking marriage. At least, not yet." She grinned.

Somehow Elizabeth suspected that within the next year, there would be the sound of wedding bells in the air. "And there had better not be," she scolded playfully. "Not without telling us first. I missed one aunt's wedding; I'm not in the mood to miss another."

-0-0-0-

Arrangements were underway to close up both cottages. Mrs. Dumfries agreed to take care of both while the occupants were gone. The offer of a generous salary didn't hurt in convincing the housekeeper to stay on and keep an eye on things. After a week of packing and storing, trunks carrying clothing and other essentials were sent ahead to their London hotel. Other items they were bringing with them were being sent directly to Luxor.

On a beautiful late October morning, the four of them, along with an eager terrier, set out for the train station. Millicent had offered to take in Min while she stayed in London, but the dog had other plans and made himself inseparable from Erik.

There was an air of excitement about the merry band. This was going to be an adventure for all. Millicent was looking forward to dinners and shows with her new beau, as well as private tours at the British Museum. "It pays to have a curator as one's friend," she remarked, as if private after-hours tours were perfectly normal. Elizabeth just smirked, thrilled that her dear aunt was not going to have to spend the winter alone in Burford.

Her father was eager as a school boy to get back to Egypt. As he had gotten older, engaging in digs had become more physical hardship than fun. The paucity of funds had become another major setback, and so he had resigned himself to ending his days as an armchair archaeologist. Now things could be different. He had a daughter and a son-in-law who shared his love of the land and its culture, and he was looking to a new excavation backed by Elizabeth and Erik.

They spent the night in London, and the next day, with Millicent seeing them off, the three of them went to Charing Cross station where they caught the London to Dover train. From Dover, they took the ferry to Calais, where they enjoyed a couple of days being tourists. Their sightseeing accomplished, they once again boarded a train.

"When we get to Paris," Erik said to Elizabeth, "there's someone I would like you to meet."

"Who?"

"A very special lady."

Elizabeth knew. Her husband wanted to introduce her to his surrogate mother—Hélène Giry. She understood that at last, she had Erik's complete trust. He had bared his past to her, and this announcement that he wanted her to meet Hélène was like the final piece of the puzzle falling into place.

Their arrival in the City of Lights was a whirlwind of activity. Paris, for all its many international visitors, did not encourage foreigners such as Alpheus and Elizabeth. Old rivalries between the British and the French surfaced, and they found themselves sympathizing with Erik for all that he, a Frenchman, had endured in England these past months. Min, however, was immediately welcomed. It seemed the French didn't hold the dog's Englishness against him.

They spent the afternoon browsing through the shopping district, and after sending their parcels ahead to the hotel where they'd be staying overnight, they opted for a walk in the nearest park. Min pulled Alpheus ahead, while Erik and Elizabeth strolled slowly down the avenue, continuing their window shopping as Erik pointed out features of the city to his bride.

Suddenly, he halted and stared at an art gallery window. "Wait! I thought I saw...Why, it's one of my old paintings!"

Elizabeth looked and saw a beautifully rendered watercolor of a scene from an opera. It appeared to be a pastoral scene, with ballerinas dressed as shepherdesses. Now that Erik had identified it as one of his works, she could see his touch – his use of colors, the framing of the composition, all reminded her of the drawings and watercolors he had made back in Egypt.

"What is this picture of?" she asked.

"The ballet in Act IV of _Il Muto,_" Erik mumbled.

"Never heard of it," she said, continuing to be intrigued by the picture. "Look," she said, pointing out several other paintings of similar subjects. "Are these yours as well? How did these paintings get to be here? Let's go inside and ask the man where he got them."

Erik balked. It seemed that old habits were hard to break. "Perhaps it would be better if you asked."

"I thought you said your past was dead and buried."

"True, but ghosts have a way of coming back to haunt us when we least expect it."

She chuckled and entered the gallery, leaving Erik to linger discreetly outside.

He watched from the shadows as the shopkeeper gingerly held up the watercolor for her to see. The two talked for what seemed to Erik to be hours, even though it was only a few minutes. He stood outside, fidgeting, wondering why she didn't simply buy the damned thing and be done with it. He rubbed his palms nervously on his thighs, a habit he thought he'd broken months earlier. At last, she came outside, her mission accomplished.

"What took you so long?" he asked indignantly.

"I had to talk to the man, Erik. What did you expect, that I would go inside and say, 'My husband tells me these are his paintings. How did you come by them?'"

"Yes, I see your point."

She took him by the arm and led him away from the gallery door. "He says that a lady, Mme Hélène Giry, has been bringing them to him for the past five years," she explained. "It sounds as though she has been selling them on consignment. He has several for sale. Oh, Erik, they're exquisite!"

He grunted impatiently. "I thought they'd all been lost years ago."

She questioned him no further, since seeing the paintings had threatened to put him in a foul mood. Instead, she remained silent as he steered her down the sidewalk to rejoin Alpheus and Min.

-0-0-0-

That evening, the four of them had dinner together. When invited, Alpheus attempted to bow out. He felt that Erik might appreciate not having him tag along as he introduced Elizabeth to his foster mother, and assured both that he would be perfectly happy attending tonight's offering at the Palais Garnier, the long-time rival to the Opera Populaire.

Erik would hear nothing of it. "If you really want to see the Palais Garnier, we'll go tomorrow. Tonight, I beg of you to meet my old friend." Since it meant so much to his son-in-law, Alpheus agreed. Once he saw Hélène, he was glad he did.

He had expected a withered old crone, from the way Erik had spoken of her, but Hélène Giry was not much older than Erik. She was a classic beauty; he was certain that Hélène must have lit up the stage when she was younger. As it was, she lit up the room.

As for Hélène, she was thrilled to meet Elizabeth! "A wife! What a surprise," she exclaimed. "Why didn't you write and let me know you were coming? I would have prepared a feast!" She invited them all into the parlor. "But first, since you're here," she said to Erik, "I was wondering if perhaps you would mind fixing the window in the upstairs hallway. It is stuck halfway, and I simply could not budge it. And these autumn nights were getting colder and colder…."

While the men set off to investigate, Elizabeth helped with supper, taking the opportunity to get to know this woman who was an important part of Erik's life.

"You are perfect for Erik," Hélène said confidently. "Strong, intelligent, able to appreciate him the way he deserves. And you are able to keep him in line. That is no mean feat."

"Erik talks about you often," Elizabeth told her. "He has the highest regard for you."

Hélène snickered, and studied the dish she was about to serve.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked. "Did I say something amusing?"

"No…it's only that…well, my dear, did you realize you've picked up an Arabic accent? All those years in the desert, it's no wonder. You must come and see me more often, so that we may improve your elocution."

Erik stuck his head through the door just then. "Now, Hélène. Don't go changing her French. The _fellahin_ won't understand a word she says when we get to work on our new dig."

Hélène deftly changed the subject. "Speaking of relics, remind me to show Alpheus some of the artifacts that Erik has sent me over the years." After their simple repast, she took the professor's elbow and ushered him into the parlor.

Alpheus scrutinized the objects, stroking his chin now and then and clucking to himself. He was clearly impressed by the quality. "You'll never want for anything, Madame," he pronounced. "If you are ever in need of funds, you need only auction off a few pieces from your collection. They will fetch you a tidy sum."

"Yes," Erik chimed in. "Consider selling those instead of my _watercolors_." He drew himself up, affecting his old phantom mystique. "I know what you've been doing with my paintings, Hélène," he said in a commanding tone.

Hélène blanched, then got angry. "How do you think I paid for the damages you caused, hmmm? If not for your little drawings…"

Erik frowned. "Watercolors, Hélène! They're watercolors!"

"As I was saying, if not for your little drawings, you'd still be making reparations." She paused, remembering something, then said, "I still have a few of them, if you want them."

"Hélène you need to know that if there are any lingering debts, I can well afford to take care of them! My business has exceeded my wildest expectations, and I have recently come into a windfall. If you are only selling the paintings to dispose of unwanted memories, then by all means, get rid of them." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "If you still have it, I would like to have the one of the one of you and Meg, to remember you by."

"That one? It was the first to sell!" When she saw the disappointment on his face, she chuckled and took pity on him. "Come now, do you really think I could part with it? It's in my room. Tell you what I'll do. I'll trade you for it. You may take it, but on one condition. When you're back in Luxor, you must paint one of yourself and your beautiful bride and send it to me...to remember you by." Her face cracked into a smirk. "Are you very angry with me, my son?"

At the sound of "my son," Erik's frown turned to a smile. "You haven't called me that in…in a very long time." He laughed, but nodded his head in acquiescence. "As always, Madame knows best."

She poked him in ribs. "And don't you forget it."

"How is Meg?" Erik asked, rubbing his side while quickly changing the conversation.

Mme Giry beamed with maternal pride. "No more the little Meg Giry of the ballet rats, is she. Today, she is Madame la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac."

"I remember. You mentioned it when I visited you last summer, on my way to England. You must be very proud."

"Yes, but when I see her, she insists upon being called Marguerite. 'Meg,' she tells me, is too common a name for a lady of her station. She has invited me to spend the winter at the baron's estate outside of Auxerre."

Erik chuckled, and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. "May we stop and see you next summer, when we pass this way again?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Hélène said, her eyes bright with happy tears.

-0-0-0-

Somehow, leaving Paris had been easier for Erik this time, since he knew that they would be back again – and that he would be welcome. The train to Marseille was fast, and the countryside with its vineyards and mustard fields passed by the observation windows in a blur. Min was a good traveler, and spent much of his time playing with young children who were making the journey with nurses or parents. He never tired of playing fetch.

In no time at all, they arrived in the largest port in all of France. Erik searched the horizon, recalling the details of his last departure through this port. It seemed a lifetime ago that he was running away from Paris and all its heartbreak, running towards a new life. Nearly six years had passed. Back then, he would never have imagined he'd be standing here with his bride and his father-in-law in tow, making their way across the Mediterranean to a fine home in Egypt.

"Well? What do you think?" he asked, sweeping his arm across the view of the port. "There's our ship,the _Solstice_.

"Oh, Erik…she's magnificent." Elizabeth shaded her eyes from the strong sun to see the enormous steamer. It had two masts, much like a tall ship, but the steam engine ensured a steady voyage regardless of the weather. "It's a far cry from the barques I've booked in the past."

He looked at her curiously, dying to tell her the news. "I've already invested in such ships. There are plenty of people who value comfort, and can well afford to pay a premium to travel in luxury. Think of the time it would save them, if they could avoid traveling by land. If we added a few ports of call to popular locations such as Pompeii, for instance, we could--"

"Spoken like a true entrepreneur," Alpheus exclaimed. He stared at the grand ship in frank admiration.

Erik rolled his shoulders in that way of his, as if his announcement was of no consequence. "I've had my share of hard travel. I believe that there is profit to be made in the Grand Tour that many Europeans are enjoying." He added with disdain, "Not to mention the Americans." He took Elizabeth by the arm and guided her towards the _Solstice_. "The concept is already catching on for transAtlantic travel," he explained. "It's called 'luxury cruises.' We will offer speed and comfort, with the emphasis on safety. Let the White Star line break the speed records and risk their necks doing it. We'll appeal to a different type of traveler, one who wants to enjoy a leisurely voyage and doesn't mind paying for the privilege."

"Those workmen," Elizabeth said, studying the activity aboard the massive steamer. "What are they doing?"

"They are installing electric lights," Erik said excitedly. "This will be the first ship in the Mediterranean to have them--possibly in the world, if the men meet the deadline I've set."

"_You've_ set?"

"Yes, my dear," he said sheepishly. "This one is ours…ours and the Cunards'. We are silent partners in this new venture."

"Silent? It seems you're already exerting some influence. I suspect that old Riemenschneider is rolling over in his grave at the thought that by making you his heir, he has helped turn you into a respectable man of business."

"I try, my dear," he replied, with the same hint of pride he'd shown when she remarked on the cozy camp chair he provided her on the dreadful trip in the desert. "And you're right about Riemenschneider. He was very generous. In fact, if his name weren't so long and blasted difficult to spell, we'd rename the ship in his memory."

They spent the day walking around Marseille, stopping to eat at cafés that afforded a view of the water. While Alpheus wandered the bookstalls, Elizabeth purchased a lap desk with pens and stationery for Safa, to encourage her to continue to learn to read and write. Next, she selected a fine linen shawl and a matching scarf for Talibah; a meerschaum pipe and some sweet tobacco for Ra'id; and a signet ring for A'aqil.

"I thought we were bringing plenty of mementos from England," Erik complained, as he carried the packages for her. "Or did we haul a bushel of Cotswold apples, a ram's fleece, and all of that foodstuff for nothing?"

"Don't be angry," she whispered in his ear. "I have something special in mind for you later, when we're alone." She walked away from him, allowing her hips to sway subtly, knowing he was watching her.

Erik stood still as a statue while the implications sank in, and hustled to catch up with her.

After supper, they bid farewell to the land and boarded the ship, ready to set sail early the next morning. Only the most important passengers were allowed to board at this time; others would wait until after breakfast the next morning. Meanwhile, sailors and stewards alike bustled about in starched white uniforms, the officers greeting every passenger in turn. The Captain, having received a message from the president of the company that Rien was a person of note, came to shake Erik's hand, and was surprised to see the recalcitrant masked man he recalled from five months earlier. "If I had known you were interested in investing," he said under his breath, "I'd have personally shown you around the ship."

"There was no need," Erik said quickly, adding, "I saw all I wanted to see." On that voyage, he had taken his meals in his cabin and barely noticed the amenities, but late at night he had skulked about with impunity, stretching his legs on deck and secretly going wherever he wished. This time, alone with Beth in the finest stateroom the ship offered, he allowed himself to appreciate the excellent craftsmanship evidenced wherever he looked. Alpheus and Min were ensconced in his own suite, adjacent to theirs – far enough away for privacy, yet close enough that Min could occasionally be heard whining to go out.

Fortunately for Min, there was plenty of room to romp with other pets that had been brought aboard. Several boys had been hired for the express purpose of looking after the many animals that passengers brought on the trip, from tiny Pomeranians to thoroughbred horses. Of particular interest to Min was a friendly Newfoundland that belonged to the First Mate. The Newfoundland, named Rigel, seemed amused by Min's endless antics and yapping, while Min clearly thought he was vastly superior to the big, hairy beast.

During the day, Erik could be coaxed to play piano in the music salon, which included a large library filled with books on a variety of subjects. No expense had been spared on the furnishings, which were plushly upholstered in rich colors, with thick, soft carpets underfoot. Beth was pleased to see her husband relaxing among the other passengers, even carrying on conversations about nothing in particular. In fact, she'd never seen him behave in such a charming, guileless manner. It was as though Erik had finally found what he'd always wanted: a normal life, with a normal family, like anyone else.

Indeed, so charming was he that several of the young ladies had begun spending a little too much time with him, talking to him in such a way that suggested an interest in establishing a more lasting acquaintance. Beth made it a point to stay close by and reminded herself that once they arrived in Alexandria, she would stop at a jeweler's and pick up a wedding band for him to wear. He was definitely off limits! She also made an extra effort to let him know that she was deeply in love with him, even going so far as to hold his hand in public as they walked around the promenade deck.

On the last day of the voyage, Beth had been especially alluring, coquettish at times, sultry at others. She had utterly surprised him when she asked him to dance with her to the music played by the ship's band, right there in the salon in full view of onlookers. In return, he had surprised her with his skill and elegance. He twirled her around the room with the sure-footedness of man accustomed to tea dances and balls.

"Where did you learn to dance this way?" she asked as they waltzed, batting her eyelashes.

"I was raised by a professional dancer, remember?" he said, gazing into her dark eyes. "Hélène made sure I was educated in all the social graces." He winced as she stepped on his toes.

"It seems I am a little out of practice," she said gaily.

"That, Mrs. Rien, we shall remedy." He smiled to himself, proud to be showing her off. Dancing. In public. With a woman. Who'd have thought he would be living this way? When the music ended, the crowd burst into spontaneous applause, and Erik bowed graciously.

The ship sped towards the North African coast smoothly, without the creaking, roiling and tossing that was characteristic of older vessels. The _Solstice_ was the finest example of modern shipbuilding, and Erik had made every effort to ensure that her beauty matched her technology. Shiny white enamel paint on the walls of the cabins reflected light, making the ship bright and cheerful. Mahogany fittings glowed in the moonlight that reflected off the water and filtered through the porthole. Silver and polished brass gleamed off, and even in the dimness, he could make out every curve of his wife's body in the bed next to him.

Elizabeth shook beneath the blankets, crying softly and hoping he wouldn't notice, but he had seen instantly that she was wearing a flannel nightgown. It was buttoned all the way up, complete with a pale blue ribbon tied in a neat little bow around her neck. Something was definitely wrong. She only wore a nightgown during a certain time of the month, a signal that marital relations were out of the question. One day he'd tell her that in some cultures, it didn't matter – but not tonight.

Erik was at a loss when it came to comfort, having known so little of it himself, but he instinctively gathered her in his arms. "What is it?" he asked with all the tenderness he could muster.

Bereft, she brushed away her tears, struggling to find that stiff upper lip that previously served her well. "I had hoped that tonight, I could tell you something wonderful, something happy," she said, her voice ragged and hoarse. "I thought I was with child, but…." She sobbed as he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead gently.

"It is of no consequence," he offered, and immediately realized it was poor consolation.

She pulled away from him. "How can you say that?" she asked, heartbroken. "It is important!" She climbed out of the bed and rounded on him angrily. "Every man wants an heir, a child of his own. And my father…he has always wanted a grandchild." She fought for air, gasping with grief over this turn of events.

He cocked his head to the side and tried to find the right words. "It makes no difference to me," he told her.

She wailed, making him reach for her, but she slapped his hands away. "Don't touch me," she said, stamping her foot for emphasis. She paced the floor furtively, like an angry cat.

He pulled a sheet around him as he rose to follow her, wondering briefly if he owned a nightshirt any more, or if Mrs. Dumfries had thrown them all out since he never wore them. For the first time in his marriage, his nudity made him feel vulnerable. Maybe it was the way Elizabeth clutched the heavy flannel cloth about herself, as if trying to hide from him. Erik didn't like feeling vulnerable. It scared him, made him brash. "I never said I wanted a child. I wanted _you_."

Her glare was like a dagger cutting into his soul. She scoffed.

He hated it when she did that. "It's true!" he said hotly. "_You're_ the one who's always going on about a baby. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one."

She turned her back on him and held herself tighter, but when she felt his warm breath on the nape of her neck, she sighed, and leaned against him. "Don't placate me," she spat. "You don't have to tell me lies to soothe my conscience."

He wrapped his arms around her pulled her close. "I have never lied to you, and I won't start now. I mean it when I say that I don't care if we never have a child. If you really want one, there are plenty of children who need a good home. God knows, when I was a child…." He closed his eyes and shuddered as unhappy memories crept into his thoughts. "Unless you're unwilling to take in an orphan—" He swallowed hard.

She turned, put her hand over his lips, and shushed him. "This isn't about adoption. Why are you building an empire, amassing a fortune, if you aren't providing for the future?"

He shrugged. "I like having money. It makes me feel secure. And I enjoy spending it on you. I like giving you things you've never had before, treating you as you deserve to be treated."

She shook her head. "I don't want _things_, Erik. You don't have to give me _things_. All I want is you."

"You've got me. And you can have _things_, too. I want everyone who sees you to say, 'There goes the brilliant, beautiful wife of Erik Rien. Look at her pretty things.'"

She laughed in spite of herself. "As long as they aren't saying, 'there goes the gaudy, _nouveau riche_ wife of Erik Rien.'"

"They're talking anyway, the old busybodies. Why not give them something to talk about?"

"They'll be saying, 'There goes that barren woman. Poor Erik Rien didn't know what he was getting when he married her. He could have done much better.'" Tears coursed down her cheeks.

This was exasperating! He thought of a thousand pithy retorts, but did his best to show restraint. "Don't you know that my love does not depend on whether or not you produce an heir! I am not some vicomte with delusions of living through his progeny." He stewed, thinking about it, wondering if Brackenstall had put this idea into her head, when it occurred to him that she needed to know what mattered most. He lowered his eyes, unable to look at her. "Remember when you told me that you didn't know if you could have children, and I said I didn't care? Remember when you said that you weren't afraid of bearing a child as ugly as I am? Oh, you said it in a kind way, but it reassured me. Beth…I couldn't bear watching a child of mine suffer."

"I understand," she said, putting her arms around his waist. "But promise me you won't run yourself into the ground, seeking out investment opportunities wherever we go."

"If we have a child, I want him…or her…or them…to have financial security. It's the best I can do." He kissed the top of her head, and continued. "I want you never to question the fact that you are my _real_ treasure."

She sniffled, drying her eyes on her sleeve, and forced a weak smile. "I didn't marry you for your money, you know."

"No," he chuckled. "Nor for my devilishly good looks."

She scowled. "I hate it when you denigrate yourself."

_Ah,_ he thought. _Leverage._ "I promise to stop talking about my disaster of a face if you will promise to stop worrying about offspring."

"This isn't a business deal!"

"You're right. It's far more important. Think of it as a promise between a husband and a wife." He offered her a handshake.

"Spoken like a newlywed," she said, tongue in cheek.

"Is that sarcasm?" he asked incredulously. "Dash my hopes, Mrs. Rien." His lips formed an irresistible moué as he pretended to pout.

She gave in and shook his hand. "It's a deal, and as I'm sure you will recall, this Englishwoman doesn't go back on her handshake, but we should seal it with a kiss." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

He gasped in surprise. "What's this?" he asked as he felt the sheet being pulled away from his lower half.

"I was thinking…perhaps we could experiment tonight. While we were shopping today, I found the most interesting little book hidden away in one of the stalls…."

He frowned as his body reacted to her touch. "We don't have to _do_ anything tonight. I'd be perfectly content to hold you all night long." He shivered in a frisson of delight in spite of his best effort at self-control.

"I know," she murmured. "You are always a gentleman." She pulled him back towards the bed. "It's only that…I was thinking…maybe I've been so concerned about procreation that I've neglected the recreational aspects of lovemaking."

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. "You mean, there's more?" He pressed himself against her, reveling in the squeal of delight that she let out. "What did you learn from this mysterious little book?"

"Wonderful things," she whispered. "Wonderful things."

For the rest of that night, they consulted the little book, availing themselves vigorously of the knowledge it contained. As dawn cast a rosy glow into the cabin, they fell asleep, exhausted, in each other's arms. They didn't even hear the ship's bell calling them to breakfast the next day, as they sailed into the ancient harbor of Alexandria, and from there, went by rail to Cairo.

-0-0-0-

Alpheus was as excited as a child with a new toy. He insisted on introducing Erik and Elizabeth to all his old friends in the Department of Antiquities, and took them on a personalized tour of the Cairo Museum.

During the day, Erik and Elizabeth often slipped out incognito. While Alpheus had tea with old friends, Erik and Elizabeth dressed in local garb and visited the bazaars, getting their meals from the food vendors, and spending the afternoons strolling through the parks along the Nile.

In the evenings, they would rejoin the rest of the European enclave and engage in such activities as taking in a performance at the Royal Opera House, or partaking in a late supper at one of the elegant hotels that catered to the European tourists.

One day, they crossed the river, their intention to spend the day exploring the famous Giza plateau.

Dressed comfortably in a blend of Western and Arabic clothing, they were ready for a day of travel through the desert. Erik had abandoned his mask for a more comfortable _keffiyeh_, and Elizabeth wore loose robes over trousers, allowing her a freedom of movement that the women among the European tourists envied. They hired donkeys to convey them to _Gebel Pharoun_, the Mountains of the Pharaoh as the locals called the pyramids that dominated the Giza plateau. From a distance, the pyramids looked smooth, but as they got closer, the sides looked ragged, like giant steps reaching up towards the sun. Though all three had seen the pyramids before, their massive size never ceased to awe and inspire.

"They were once encased in polished limestone," Alpheus remarked, the professor in him coming forth. "When they were new, their sides reflected the sun and shone like mountains of gold."

They directed their animals to the great reclining Sphinx, buried in sand up to its shoulders and looking ever east, the expression on its noseless face hinting that it knew the secrets of the universe, but was unwilling to share. Nearby were ruins of an ancient temple, but like the Sphinx, most of it was buried under the ever-shifting sands, and so they continued to the pyramids.

As they approached the base of the pyramids, they could see three smaller, ragged mounds of stone. "Queens' pyramids," Alpheus pronounced.

"Are you sure?" asked a lady with another group of tourists.

"Quite so, dear lady."

Elizabeth beamed. "This is Professor Alpheus Cutteridge," she said.

"_The _Professor Cutteridge?" the lady's male companion asked, obviously impressed.

Alpheus blushed with pride. "The same."

The young man offered his hand to the professor. "My wife and I were admiring these magnificent monuments, but to meet the eminent Professor Cutteridge on top of it? This is jolly good, don't you agree, Sophie?"

"Oh, yes," the lady agreed.

Soon, the professor was offering to give the young couple – who they learned were on their honeymoon – a personal tour of the necropolis. "I know you two want to go scampering up there," he said to Erik and Elizabeth, motioning to the giant stone structures. "I'm too old for such exertions. Go ahead. I'll be quite content to stay down here and offer a few opinions."

-0-0-0-

They chose the middle pyramid. "That's the pyramid of Chephren," Elizabeth exclaimed.

"Many people think it is the tallest," Erik commented, "but that is an illusion."

"You're right. It only looks taller than the others. Actually, Cheops's pyramid is taller. Chephren, his son, built his on a higher elevation, in order to give the illusion of greater importance." They gazed at the many other tourists and their guides making their way up the massive stones. "Shall we?"

The stones were from three to four feet high, reminding Elizabeth of giant stepping stones, and climbing was fatiguing even for the most conditioned persons. Many stops to rest were taken, and along the way up, their conversation turned to the symbolism of the structures.

"That's what the Pyramids were all about," Elizabeth said during one of their numerous breaks on the way up. "The pharaoh's journey from life to death, and to rebirth."

After the better part of an hour, they at last reached the summit. By this time, the others had given up, so that Erik and Elizabeth alone reached the peak. Erik stood tall and erect, taking in the landscape as the wind whipped violently at his clothing and tore the scarf from his face. The sun hung low in the sky, framing his muscular silhouette with a golden glow. Elizabeth inhaled deeply as, once again, the mere sight of him took her breath away and reminded her of how much she loved this strong yet gentle man, a man of contrasts, a man who loved beauty and music…and her. A man who made her feel special in ways she never thought she would.

They sat down on one of the large cut stones, admiring the view. The narrow ribbon of blue that was the Nile sliced through the landscape, narrow strips of green on either side giving way to the browns and golds where the desert met the farms, while the pyramids rose like a small mountain range. In the distance, they could hear the cry of a hawk. Looking down, they saw the regal bird circling lazily.

She saw the pensive look on Erik's face. "What are you thinking?" Elizabeth asked.

"About the first time I came to Egypt. I climbed this pyramid then, too. At the time, I was only just beginning to pick up the pieces of my life. All I was seeking was someplace where I could live in reasonable comfort, where I would not have to look over my shoulder, where I could blend in and not have people pointing at me. I found that here…and much more."

She nestled closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. "That hawk, it is Ra-Harekhty, the symbol of rebirth."

Erik chuckled, looking down at the pendant he wore. "I feel like Ra-Harekhty in that I, too, have been reborn."

"Now that I have you alone," Elizabeth said, "I have a surprise for you." She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small box. "Go ahead. Open it."

It was a small jeweler's box. Erik lifted the lid tentatively. "What is it?"

"You'll see," she said, smiling.

Inside, Erik saw a ring – a gold wedding band. "Thank you," he said, almost at a loss for words. "I…this is completely unexpected." He lifted it up, almost reverently.

"If you don't like it, or if it doesn't fit, we can exchange it."

He slipped it onto his finger. "No! It…it's…perfect," he said haltingly, blinking back tears. "How…how did you know what size to get?"

Elizabeth blushed becomingly. "Your hands are very large. I know exactly how they feel when they are holding mine, and when they are touching me." She slipped her hand into his. "That and the fact that I tied a thread around your finger while you were sleeping, to be sure of the size."

Erik threw back his head and laughed, then pulled her close and kissed her.

"There's an inscription inside," she said, enjoying the feel of his arms around her.

He peeked inside. "Journeys End." He beamed, remembering having those same words engraved inside her wedding band. "Now we match."

"Yes, we're a perfect pair." She gazed at the magnificent structure they had climbed, and her eye caught something. "Look!" she said, pointing to the many scratchings of graffiti that marked the stones and remembered hearing stories of tourists who considered it _de rigueur_ for those who climbed all the way to the summit to engrave their names for posterity. "We should add our names as well."

Erik pulled out his pocket knife. "There. Now the world will know we've been here." Elizabeth watched approvingly as he carved, _Elizabeth & Erik ~ Journeys End ~ November 1886_.

-0-0-0-

A few days later, they took the train to Luxor. They considered hiring a felucca to sail them to Luxor, but both Erik and Elizabeth were eager to return home. When they'd first arrived in Alexandria, Erik had sent word to A'aqil and the others that they were in Egypt, and to get the house prepared. Before leaving Cairo, Erik again wired A'aqil, this time informing his servant of the date and time of their arrival.

As he'd expected, the household was waiting for them at the Luxor train station. Ra'id had brought a wagon with which to convey the family and their luggage home. The biggest items had been sent ahead and were now waiting for them at the house. There was a joyous reunion between Ra'id and Alpheus as the two men recounted their many adventures together. Ra'id had begun working for the professor when he had been but a lad of about ten, and there was much reminiscing.

Min tore into the house and immediately set about exploring every nook and cranny, soon claiming Erik's favorite chair as his own. Elizabeth greeted Safa with a hug. The young Nubian woman was dressed modestly in many long, flowing yards of fabric, as befitted a married woman, but Elizabeth sensed that something had changed. Even with the lower half of her face covered, she could see the glow, and something about the young woman's deportment suggested to Elizabeth that Safa was increasing.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Ra'id announced, "Allah has blessed us. My dearest Safa is with child." Much congratulating and hugging took place, and Safa and Elizabeth talked quietly to one another, woman to woman.

"Sitt, we must speak," she said as the two sat next to each other on the ride home. "We…that is, Ra'id and I, we would like it if you and Master Erik would share in the celebration of our baby's birth."

"You mean something like a christening?" Elizabeth asked, and then realized her gaff. Christenings were a Christian rite, not Muslim. "What kind of celebration will there be?"

"On the seventh day after the baby's birth, a celebration is held so that we may give thanks to Allah and share our happiness with others." She cast a longing look at Ra'id. It was obvious to Elizabeth that the young woman loved her husband very, very much. "At that time, we will announce the child's name and cut a lock of its hair, and the equivalent of the lock's weight in silver is given in charity to the poor. An animal is sacrificed, its meat distributed among family and friends and the poor."

"So, there is no kind of 'purifying' rite?"

"No, Sitt. There is no need for a baby to be purified, because all children are born pure and sinless."

Talibah was there, too, mystified by the little dog that twirled on its hind legs, begging for her attention. Erik could have sworn that the woman looked younger; many of the lines and wrinkles on her face had smoothed out, and overall she had a fuller look. Good food, he figured, and not having to worry if she had a roof over her head had taken years from her appearance. Her tongue was as sharp as ever, though, a fact to which A'aqil readily attested.

"She bosses us around as if _she _were mistress of this house," complained the manservant, who did not look as if he had missed too many meals of late.

Safa frowned at her brother and laughed. "You only complain because Grandmother Talibah makes you work."

A'aqil, ignoring his sister's barbs, announced to his master that business had prospered during his absence. "No doubt the shop will need to be expanded," he pronounced. "Even in the off season, business was banging."

Erik snickered. "Don't you mean 'booming'?"

A'aqil shrugged, a habit he'd picked up from his master. "Banging. Booming. What's the difference?" booming."

-0-0-0-

Alpheus was given the guest suite that Elizabeth had once occupied. It had been remodeled into a kind of luxury suite. The master bedroom had also been remodeled. A'aqil had taken care of this prior to their arrival. What had once been a sparse, masculine room was now softened with pillows and furnishings upholstered in pastels, vases of flowers from Safa's garden, statuary and other pieces of art – both ancient and modern.

Once settled in, Elizabeth took her father aside and told him that she would not allow Erik to continue wearing a mask or a scarf in his own home, but that Erik was concerned that Alpheus would be offended by his appearance. Later that day, when Alpheus and Erik were alone sipping iced tea in the courtyard, the professor broached the subject. "There's no reason for you to keep covering your face, son," he said gently. "I'm an old man. I've seen my share of strange sights. Yours won't be the first ugly face I've seen – nor the last. Why every time I look in the mirror…" He broke off as Erik resigned himself to showing Alpheus his true appearance, at last.

Erik heaved a sigh, closed his eyes, and slowly removed his _keffiyeh_. He remained motionless as his father-in-law stared, a familiar coldness taking hold of his limbs.

"There now," Alpheus said in a quavering voice, doing his best to appear unflappable, and failing miserably at it. "Isn't that more comfortable?"

Erik nodded stiffly. "Are you all right?"

The professor harrumphed. "Why wouldn't I be? I've seen worse." And that was the end of the discussion. Alpheus, with excruciating politeness, maintained a dignity that the Queen herself would have envied. In time, it would be less awkward between them, of that he was certain.

Besides, Alpheus had much more important concerns. He was dying to visit Karnak. They rose early one morning and set out for the old temple complex, its many columns standing like silent sentinels. Elizabeth showed her father where the Brackenstall expedition had once been digging.

"Do you still have the concession?" her father asked.

"Why, yes," Elizabeth said, "but it's hardly worth the paper it's written on, much less the price of the license."

Alpheus waved off her protestations when something caught his eye. Going down on his knees, he brushed away some sand, revealing part of an exquisite Twentieth Dynasty statuette of Rameses II. Reverently, he picked it up. Erik and Elizabeth both admired the piece. It as definitely museum quality.

"You see, m'dear," her father said, "not all treasures are made of gold."

Erik put his arm around Elizabeth's waist. "To that I can attest," he said, looking his wife in the eye and stealing a kiss, "for I have found the greatest treasure of them all – true love."

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note:** As you have already figured out, this story is all but over. There will be one more chapter -- an epilogue, actually. At this time, Lizzy and I would like to thank all of you who have read our story. We appreciate each and every one of you.

I'm not sure when there will be another story. I had intended on taking some time off to work on other projects, but already, I have another Erik clamoring for his story to be told. This one is still in the early, formative stages, and I will not post anything until I know that I'll be able to finish it. For now, know that it will be an E/C story and that if all goes smoothly, I may be posting it before the year is out. I am not a person who can write willy-nilly; I am slow and methodical, so bear with me.

And once again -- many, many thanks to all of you, our readers!


	41. Epilogue

To give all of you a head start on your holiday weekend (if you're in the US), here is the final installment of _Treasures of Egypt._

**Treasures of Egypt  
Epilogue**

"_The bond that links your true family is not one of blood,  
but of respect and joy in each other's life."_

~Richard Bach

_1907  
Twenty Years Later…_

Over the years, Erik made good on his promise made to Elizabeth all those years ago -- to spend the rest of his days striving to be the kind of man she believed him to be. He need not have worked so hard to prove himself to her, for she had always known that deep down, he was a good man, an honorable man. She, in turn, promised herself always to be the kind of wife who was worthy of him. And in this way, their love for one other grew. Each passing year found them happier and more content in their affection and their mutual interest in Egypt, in the arts and in their growing family. One day, when both were well into their fifties, Elizabeth turned to Erik and asked suddenly, "Do you regret that we never had a child of our own?"

They were in the courtyard where Erik had set up his easel. It was January, that time of the year when the temperatures in Luxor were pleasantly comfortable, and he was busy putting the finishing touches on a rendering of a recently discovered tomb painting. He had stared at the sketches surrounding him, and at the drawing he had begun to paint with vivid colors. When finished, the painting (or a reproduction of it) was to be included with an article his wife was writing for an archaeological journal.

He paused, his brush suspended in mid-air, as he considered her question. For a moment he made no response, but sat quietly as he mulled over what he wanted to say. Then a smile crept across his face – the face he never covered when within the confines and comfort of his home, surrounded by people who loved and cared for him – as he listened to the soft sounds of snoring. Across the courtyard, seated in his lounge chair, was Alpheus, dozing in the late afternoon sun. At last, Erik had answered, speaking softly to avoid waking the old man.

"What do you mean, no children? We raised A'aqil, didn't we?"

Elizabeth frowned at his humorous attempt at avoiding answering her question. "A'aqil, his sons, and Safa's brood don't count as children of our own."

"You could have fooled me," he said with a wistful sigh, thinking of all that had transpired over the years.

Ra'id and Safa had been very productive indeed, spawning a fine family of many children. They had their mother's grace, their father's resilience, and their "uncle" Erik twisted around their little fingers. They gave him their love freely, and in return, he could refuse them nothing. He had taught them each to play the musical instruments they favored, while Elizabeth saw to their education. Soon, the older ones would be starting families of their own. Even Young A'aqil, who was so called to differentiate him from his father, was anxious to spread his wings. He had his father's wit and intelligence, and attending university at Oxford had only whetted his appetite to make his mark on the world.

Much to Elizabeth's delight, Young A'aqil had decided to join what he jokingly referred to as "the family business." He had distinguished himself academically in the classics department, and planned a career as an Egyptologist. Although some of the professors had scoffed at the idea of a "native" engaging in such a career, Elizabeth had insisted that he, as an Egyptian, had more business in the field than any European. Taking a break from his studies, Young A'aqil had returned to Luxor, where he was currently conducting a new dig under Elizabeth's guidance.

-0-0-0-

"Uncle Erik?"

It was Young A'aqil himself who interrupted Erik's musings. "When you have time, I need your help with an illustration." He stood next to his father, the pair of them like ebony pillars. Tall, straight, and handsome, the young man was the image of his father in his younger years.

"Another paper? You've been prolific these past few weeks. What is it this time, archaeology or linguistics?"

The young man smiled, white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. "Neither. It is dancers – dancers and musicians. We have uncovered a fresco depicting a banquet, complete with entertainers. I want to send a good rendering of it to the BM, and you are the only one who can do it justice."

"Flattery does not become you, boy," Erik growled, turning his attention back to the painting he was working on. Noting his wife's scowl, he added, "But I shall be happy to assist you."

Over in the corner, Alpheus stirred and mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep. Elizabeth rose to check him, to make certain he was cool and comfortable. She tucked the lap blanket around his knees, and tilted his hat so that it cast a shadow across his face. At his advanced age, his complexion was rather fragile and required more care than when he was a young man, tearing across the desert in search of antiquities. With any luck, and by the grace of God, her father had a few years left to enjoy the Egyptian sun. He had held onto his home in the Cotswolds for many years, until at last, he had been persuaded to move to Luxor and make the guest suite his permanent home. These days, he was comfortable in Luxor, more at home in Egypt than he had been in England for many years.

-0-0-0-

Erik and Elizabeth saw many events over the course of their marriage – some were pleasant, while some sad. But never once did either of them have any regrets.

Aunt Millie had made a new life for herself in London with her husband. Their September romance had blossomed and flourished, and she had thrived as the wife of a curator. Her social responsibilities included entertaining benefactors of the museum, and she had excelled at it, resulting in many expansions to the Egyptian collection over the years. It did not hurt that her niece and nephew-in-law were among the most generous donors, and that her brother had also made significant tangible contributions to the museum.

Although they visited Luxor each winter, Millie and her husband had grown too old and set in their ways to make the journey comfortably, and had retired to the Cotswolds ten years earlier. Erik and Elizabeth visited them annually, although their visits had grown shorter in recent years, corresponding to slight declines in Alpheus' health. A brisk correspondence was maintained, full of lively details about the ever-expanding Rien household. And of course, Young A'aqil had visited them whenever possible when at school, since Oxford was only a few hours away by train. He stayed in what Erik and Elizabeth still affectionately referred to as their Honeymoon Cottage, not far from the Cutteridge home, and Young A'aqil made sure it was in good repair should they ever wish to return.

Old Talibah had ruled the household with an iron fist, keeping A'aqil under her thumb and badgering him into behaving respectably until he finally took a wife. Nashwah, whose name meant "wonderful feeling," took over some of the old woman's duties as time went by, pausing only to give birth. Between Safa and Ra'id, and A'aqil and Nashwah, there were always children underfoot, and laughter and mischief filled the Rien home day and night.

The little ones delighted in chasing after a pack of terriers that held dominion over the property. Descendants of Min, the dogs tumbled head over heels throughout the courtyard and beyond, followed by raucous laughter wherever they went. "They make excellent guard dogs," Elizabeth had promised, and sure enough, the Rien home was never again troubled by intruders.

One morning, before the sun arose, Erik had been awakened by soft tapping at the bedroom door. He had slipped out of bed, covering Elizabeth and grabbing a robe that he tossed over his head. He'd never acquired the habit of wearing night clothes; they only got in the way. He opened the door slightly and peered at A'aqil.

"It's Talibah," the Nubian had whispered. Erik knew at once that something was wrong. A'aqil never called her by her name, always referring to her as a witch whenever she was out of earshot. "Nashwah came in early to start the cook stove for breakfast, and found her in bed…. She appeared to be sleeping, but…."

They had all wept that day, remembering the thousand kindnesses Talibah had shown them. A'aqil believed she had led him to Nashwah, the love of his life. Elizabeth was certain that the old woman had known all along that Leo had died in the desert but had said nothing as the old woman was certain that Elizabeth was meant to be with Erik. But Erik—Erik was inconsolable.

Talibah had saved his life when he had been stung by the Deathstalker scorpion. She had comforted him when he thought he had lost Elizabeth forever. She had been more of a mother to him than his own mother had been, had treated him like the son she had lost. At her funeral, he poured out his grief in the way he knew best, through his music. He took up the old violin that Aldric had given him that summer on the Burgundy Canal, and played a requiem that he composed especially for her, while Safa's eldest sang the lyrics.

It was a double hardship for the family when Alpheus suffered a brain hemorrhage a few weeks later. He had attempted to uncork a bottle of his favorite port – his one weakness – when he cried out with a terrible pain in his head. "My face," he said, struggling to speak. "Has something happened to my face?" By morning, he was gone.

Professor Cutteridge had become a well known figure in Luxor, and a staple at the Cairo Museum. His funeral was well attended by representatives and friends ranging from the laborers and workmen who remembered him from his digs to government officials and representatives of various museums.

It came as no surprise when, in late spring, Elizabeth received an invitation to give a lecture at the _Société Archéologique d'Egypte_.

-0-0-0-

A tranquil hotel on Rue Cassette in the sixth arrondissement proved the perfect place for the Riens to rest between meetings, lectures, and receptions at the _Société Archéologique_. No sooner had they entered their suite than Erik had ensconced himself in a chair and buried his nose in the evening newspaper, while Elizabeth shook off her walking dress and slipped into a dressing gown. She unpinned her hair, letting her long brown locks cascade down her back, free and loose – the way her husband liked it.

Erik lifted his head from behind the newspaper. "Elizabeth," he called. "They're tearing down the old Opera Populaire!"

She gave her hair quick strokes with a brush before answering him. "And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. The last time we walked past it, it was nothing more than an eyesore. The place is a fire hazard." She dabbed a drop of his favorite perfume behind her ear before joining him in the sitting room.

"There is to be an auction prior to the demolition," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "A public auction. Tomorrow!"

She came over and sat on the arm of the chair, reading over his shoulder. "Shall we go? I've never been inside, and it would give me a chance to see the place."

He frowned. "There isn't much to see, I don't expect. Not after all these years standing empty. Still…"

"Look here," she said, pointing to the fine print in the announcement. "It says, 'paintings by an unknown artist will be among the items offered.' Erik…you don't suppose…"

He snorted. "Hélène cleaned them out years ago. I don't imagine there is anything left of mine." His lip twitched, the way it did when he wasn't being completely forthcoming.

"You'd like to go, wouldn't you?" she said, draping her arm around his shoulder. "I understand. You grew up there, with Hélène's protection. Perhaps this would give you a chance to say goodbye."

He nodded absent-mindedly, lost in thought. He barely acknowledged the kiss she placed on the side of his head, on the soft spot next to the mask he always wore when traveling outside of Egypt. He looked at her sheepishly, hesitant to tell her what was on his mind. "Remember the ring? The one that Christine gave me?"

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Of course. You were planning to bring it with you, to return it to her family. Do you have it with you?"

He fingered the ring in his pocket, the ring that had passed from Raoul to Christine to him, back in those fateful days. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'd forgotten all about it until I came upon it, tucked away in a box and stuck in a corner in one of the desk drawers." At the time, he was glad he had never hidden his past from Elizabeth, that he had told her the whole sordid story, but when he saw the fleeting shadow of heartache that crossed her face, he wondered if he should have kept it to himself. Perhaps he should have thrown the damned thing in the Nile, given it to some charity, or sold it in his shop…no, he could never do that. It had been a gift from Christine, and in spite of everything, he could never betray her memory in such a callous way.

Elizabeth put her hand over his, and drew it out of his pocket. The rose-colored diamonds glittered in the lamplight. "It has been a year since she died. Perhaps you'd like to visit the graveyard where she is buried, and pay your respects."

He let out the breath he had been holding, and looked at her with gratitude and longing. "How did I get so lucky, to have you as my wife?" He pulled her into his lap and kissed her tenderly.

"Tonight at supper," Beth said, already planning her next course of action, "we must ask Hélène all about the auction, and what relics of your past we might find."

"Hoping to find more of my paintings, my dear?" he said, chuckling.

-0-0-0-

The next day, Erik and Elizabeth, together with Mme Giry, made their way to the decrepit ruins of what had once been the magnificent and opulent Opera Populaire. Erik donned a broad-brimmed hat which he pulled low over his face, effectively hiding the mask and concealing his identity.

Even though Hélène had assured them that no one would be looking for Erik – reminding them that the Phantom was believed long dead – Elizabeth dressed plainly, not wishing to attract attention to herself, and therefore to her husband. A block short of their destination, the couple parted ways with Mme Giry and entered the building separately, making their way carefully up the staircase leading to the massive front doors.

The steps and flooring had lost their facing, making walking treacherous. Close up, it was obvious that the building was in even worse condition than the outside had led them to expect. Pigeons roosted high in the nooks and crannies, while other vermin had made a mess of the once-grand theater. Marble had already been stripped from the columns that had once been graced by ornate candelabra, and the gilt statuary had long been removed. All that remained was an assortment of odds and ends, and a few items designed to draw a crowd.

Erik and Elizabeth stood in the background while Hélène gracefully made her way to the front of the buyers and onlookers. The former ballet mistress nodded as she recognized one person in particular: It was Raoul, the Comte de Chagny.

Elizabeth turned so that only Erik could hear her. "Who is that man in the wheel chair?"

The corners of his mouth turned downwards, and he took a half-step towards her, turning his back to the others. "That, my dear, is Christine's husband."

"But he's so…so old. I thought you said he was about your age." Her husband, with a streak of silver running through his hair, had aged well. He stood straight and tall, the picture of health. The Comte, however, was stooped and pale, with painfully swollen hands. He squinted at the people around him, and held the objects being auctioned close to his face, the better to see them.

"Hélène said that Christine died of cholera. Raoul also came down with the illness and had a bad time of it, suffering from kidney and heart ailments. He can barely stand, and requires a nurse at all times."

Elizabeth looked at the nobleman discreetly, avoiding staring at him openly as many others in the crowd were doing. The auctioneer's gavel struck, alerting Elizabeth to the offering of the next item.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theater, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

A porter held up the music box. "Showing here," he said, setting it into motion. A simple yet haunting tune played, and the bidding commenced.

"May I commence at fifteen francs?" inquired the auctioneer. A hand rose. It was Mme Giry. "Fifteen, thank you," he acknowledged. Another hand rose. This time it was Raoul's nurse. "Yes, twenty from you sir, thank you very much."

"I've never seen anything like that," Elizabeth whispered to her husband. It reminded her of music boxes her husband had made for the children of their household in Egypt. "The music is…Erik…I've heard that tune before. Is that your song?"

He nodded slowly, mechanically, as the bidding concluded.

"Selling at thirty francs, then. Thirty once, thirty, twice…" The gavel slammed down. "Sold for thirty francs. To the Comte de Chagny. Thank you, sir." The porter handed the box to Raoul, then returned to the stage for the next item.

"Lot 666 then," the auctioneer intoned. "A chandelier in pieces." All attention turned to a mammoth chandelier resting on the floor of the auditorium, covered in canvas. "Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen?"

At the auctioneer's signal, the porters whipped off the canvas. Erik looked at Elizabeth in a way that made her shiver. His eyes showed bright, as if he were fighting back tears. Memories of unrequited love flooded into the forefront of his consciousness. Memories of his own base behavior, his own crimes and misdeeds, made him burn with shame and regret. His heart beat fast, and the blood rushing in his ears nearly blocked out all other sound. He felt sick.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Perhaps some fresh air would do you good."

He agreed in a shaky voice. "Let's leave." He took her by the arm and together, they went out into the daylight. They walked for several blocks, putting some distance between themselves and the auction before catching a cab, opting for one of the old fashioned horse-drawn vehicles rather than the newer automobiles that were starting to take over the streets.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.

Erik seemed momentarily lost. _Pere Lachaisse? Montparnasse? Which one? I never asked. I never cared to know_. "Montparnasse," he said at last. He held Elizabeth's hand tightly. "That's where her father is buried. If I know her, that's what she'll be, unless, of course, her husband…."

Elizabeth squeezed his hand. "It's all right. I understand. You need to do this, Erik. It doesn't mean you don't love me."

His lips were tight, more a grimace than a smile, and he stared out the window at the passing terrain.

She put her head on his shoulder and rubbed his arm. "Before I left the Brackenstalls, I buried Leo's wedding ring and my matching one in his grave."

Erik twisted the ring on his own finger, but said nothing, so they rode in silence the rest of the way. Once at the gate, he ordered the cab to wait before helping Elizabeth down. A flower vendor near the entrance of the old graveyard offered a bouquet of roses to the couple, and Erik accepted it. He pressed far too much money into her hand, along with all but one of the flowers and the black mourning ribbon that tied them together. He'd taken only one of the blooms – a single, perfect, fragrant red rose – and returned the rest.

It was a clear, beautiful day in late spring, and the bright sunshine made a mockery of the sadness Erik felt. Christine had been so alive, so beautiful, so trusting…and he had done nothing but betray her. The ring sat in his pocket like a hot coal. Every step he took jostled it, a reminder of every mistake he had ever made.

He knew exactly where to go, heading straight for the sepulcher that belonged to Christine's father. Elizabeth held on tightly as he walked faster and faster, his long legs taking great strides, forcing her to quicken her pace to keep up with him. He glanced from side to side, quickly reading the names, before stopping abruptly.

Her tombstone bore her portrait. He had seen it before he saw the name, Comtesse de Chagny. "Beloved wife and mother," he read aloud. He growled impatiently, his self-contempt rising like bile. "I have no business here."

"You have every right to be here," Elizabeth snapped. "You were once her friend, and she was yours. There is no reason you shouldn't pay your respects."

He shook his head, but he couldn't take his eyes off the portrait. Slowly, he extended a hand to it, his long, elegant fingers reaching out to touch the outline of her cheek, her hair, her lips. "She was only a child, barely out of her teens when I…. I am so sorry, Christine. I hope that you were able to forgive me." He was crying softly, and he sank to one knee as he placed the rose on the grave. "Hélène says you had a good marriage, a happy marriage. She says your boys are…like their father. Brave, good-looking, and honorable. She also says that they have your smile."

"Someone's coming," Elizabeth said, interrupting him and pointing to the Rolls Royce Silver Ghost that was pulling into the cemetery. "There's a crest on the door. It must belong to someone important. Oh, Erik! It might be Raoul!"

Erik stood and straightened his coat. "Goodbye, Christine. May guardian angels serve and protect you, always." He kissed Elizabeth on the forehead before walking a short distance away with her as the automobile pulled up close to the tomb.

Elizabeth was right: It was, in fact, Christine's husband. Raoul was helped out of the limousine and, with obvious difficulty, insisted on walking alone to his wife's grave. He was stooped and frail, but he carried the music box that he had won at the auction proudly, as though it had eluded him for years. He set it at the base of the tombstone. "A collector's piece, indeed…every detail exactly as you said…" He looked down at the music box. "Will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead…?" He wiped his eyes with the back of gloved hands, brushing away his grief.

He reached down to adjust the music box, when his hand accidently brushed against the rose. He ran a nervous hand over the petals, pausing at the stem where the ribbon held the ring. He touched it, examining it with his fingers. The stem held something hard and round. He held it close to his cloudy eyes to see a faint shimmer. Something glittered in the sunlight, and recognition began to set in. It flickered in his dim eyes as his mind screamed, _He's here! But he can't be! He's dead. Isn't he?_

Furtively, he scanned the graveyard, looking for his old nemesis. This was the man who nearly killed him, the man who had kidnapped his Christine. This was the man who had destroyed the Opera Populaire, and who had nearly killed hundreds of people that night…that night…so long ago.

This was also the man Christine had spoken of with affection. She had missed him, had loved him, in her own way. And, much to Raoul's dismay, she had never stopped wishing she could have seen him one last time, before he drowned at sea. But what if the reports of his death were wrong? What if he had somehow, once more, eluded the authorities? Worse yet, what if the Phantom really had reached out from beyond the grave, haunting him until the end, as Raoul had always feared?

"Come out," the Comte called, his voice quivering. He could only hope that he could conceal the terror he felt. "I know you are here. You can't hide from me forever!"

"I am here," Erik said calmly, as peacefully as he could. He was standing right beside Raoul. "Can't you see me?"

Raoul jumped back so quickly Erik thought he would fall. He reached out to steady the man. "We weren't hiding, you ninny," he said with exasperation. "You simply didn't notice us."

"Unhand me!" Raoul cried, lashing out at Erik as his nurse and coachman hurried to his aid. Erik held him at arm's length, preventing the frail man from falling, but also keeping him from striking anyone.

"Monsieur!" the nurse cried. "He is practically blind!"

"B-blind?" Erik sputtered.

Elizabeth stepped forth. "Please forgive us, Monsieur. I'm afraid we have startled you. We were only paying our respects to your late wife."

The Comte peered at her through rheumy eyes. "Who are you? What do you want?" He slapped the hands of his stout middle-aged nurse when she tried to coax him to sit down.

Elizabeth fought back tears of her own, and pleaded silently with Erik to let her explain. "We're…my husband is an old friend of Christine's, from her days in the Opera Populaire. We've been…abroad."

"But the rose," Raoul said, as he slumped down, sitting on the ground beside the tomb. "And the ring. I remember. There was mist, and a vast, glassy lake. There was a man…a hideous criminal. Oh, Christine! He tried to take her from me." He began to wail, sobbing for his lost wife.

Erik regarded him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. What had happened to the shining Apollo who had rescued Christine from the dungeon of his black despair? Had he been so broken by Christine's death that he was ready to die, too? Compassion for the ailing man before him outweighed the other emotions that battled inside him. He knelt beside the frail man. "You are safe. No one will harm you," he said, using the Voice. "I'm here to make amends. I am here to beg your forgiveness—and hers—for the terrible things I did all those years ago."

Raoul's shoulders shook as he cradled his head in his hands, and Elizabeth reached out to pat his arm. He responded with a bitter laugh. "She never believed Hélène, not for a moment!" he cried. "She always knew you were alive. I told her she was a foolish child. I even accused her of being in love with you."

"No," Erik muttered, aghast. "She loved you. She was happy with you. She wanted to be with you. For God's sake, man. She chose you, and rightfully so. You were all she ever wanted, and more."

"Don't you see? She never blamed you for any of it. She prayed for you every day."

"But Hélène said…"

Raoul's head shot up. "Hélène? She was your accomplice?"

"No, never! Much later, years after…the disaster…I…went to Hélène. She told me Christine was happy with you, that you had a family together, that…everything was as it should be."

With that thought, clarity seemed to return to both of them.

"It was as it should be," Raoul said sadly. "As it should be." He went pale, and appeared to faint. Erik held him by the arms while the nurse and the chauffeur brought a wheelchair over to him, and helped them get their charge back into the vehicle. Raoul held onto the rose, staring at it blankly, while Elizabeth put the music box on the seat next to him.

After her patient was settled, the nurse took Elizabeth aside and whispered, "He won't remember any of this, come night time. He has these spells, you see. It's very sad. Very sad indeed."

Beth understood. "Thank you, Nurse…?"

"Jammes," the woman replied.

Erik tilted his head to the side and looked at her more closely. "Little Jammes?"

"Don't worry, sir. Your secret's safe with me," she said, her eyes sparkling with recognition. "I haven't forgotten what you did for us back then. Christine wasn't the only ballet rat you looked after in the old Opera Populaire. If it hadn't been for you, none of us would have had a job." She turned to Elizabeth. "He put food on our table, ma'am, and made sure the stage hands left us alone at night. When we were tired and cold, he sang lullabies for us and told us stories, and he made the managers send real physicians to treat us when we were ailing or when we were hurt. Christine thought he was her angel, but we knew different." Her eyes twinkled as she talked. "We knew who he was, even if he didn't."

"Thank you, Jammes," said Erik.

"No Monsieur, thank _you._" Their conversation concluded, Nurse Jammes joined Raoul in the back seat of the Rolls Royce, the chauffeur resuming his seat in front and driving them away from the cemetery and back to the de Chagny estate.

"I'm so sorry you had to witness that," Erik said, the automobile disappearing from their sight. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and shame. "I…I'm so sorry."

"Nonsense," Elizabeth replied, leading him away from all this sadness and back to their cab. "You put up with far worse when we first met. In twenty years, this is the worst you can do?"

A warm smile was her reward.

"She found her happiness, and I found mine."

"Come, my treasure," Erik said, in tones that caressed her like warm silk. "We have a lifetime ahead of us."

"Tomorrow, we're leaving for Calais, and then on to England."

"England. I wonder what new surprises are in store for us there?"

Inside the privacy of the cab, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him and kissed him senseless. "Good ones, _mon trésor_. Good ones. _Je t'adore_. And don't you ever forget it."

"I won't," he said, smiling.

"Christine was a fool to let you get away."

He laughed. "Tell me more, Mme Rien."

Her gaze turned sultry. "No. I think we've talked enough for one day."

The setting sun cast a rosy glow into the cab. By the time they returned to their hotel, they'd put the past far behind them.

The future was all that mattered.

-0-0-0-

**The end.**

**Author's Note: **And now, I would like to take one last opportunity to thank all of our readers. Whether you read and reviewed, or just read and enjoyed, Lizzy and I appreciate your support. I hope to, down the road, make this story available in printed form thru my Lulu account, as I have done with my other Phantom of the Opera stories. Looking back, I can see several things I would like to improve. I'll post information about the book when it becomes available on my profile. If you would prefer a personal notification, just PM me and I'll make a note to do so.

Lizzy and I have also started work on a new story. If we are lucky and if our muse sticks with us, I may start posting it before the year is out. Before I ever post the first chapter, I want to make sure I can finish it. I know how disappointed I have been in the past to start reading a good story, only to find the author abandoning it for one reason or another. Yes, I understand about our "real" lives getting in the way of our fun, but I don't want to inflict yet another abandoned Erik upon the world. The new story -- if it makes it out of the formative stages -- will be E/C, and will be a blend of ALW and Gaston Leroux (my favorite combination).

So from me and Lizzy, thank you, ALL of you, once again.


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